


In her Possession

by cupcakesnsarcasm



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels, F/M, Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Intimacy, Plot, Romance, Sex, Smut, argument, vengeful spirit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-06-09 12:51:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 54,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6908020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupcakesnsarcasm/pseuds/cupcakesnsarcasm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a hunt goes bad, Catherine finds herself hurt and cuffed to a bed, with two strange men standing above her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“Get the door, would you, Dean?”  The voice was impossibly far away, yet so very close at the same time._

_“Yeah, hang on,” the returning voice was gravel under the water, but it felt safe somehow.  The door creaked, and she felt the presence shake loose as they passed through it.  Her eyes fluttered open, just for a second, and she saw khaki, felt strong arms carrying her like she was a tiny child.  Her wrists were tied, tightly, and she felt odd. “Sam. She’s awake,” the second voice said, and there was a warning there.  She moved to struggle, but searing pain moved through her shoulder, and the blackness in her head swallowed her whole._

_***_

                Her head hurt.  That was the first thing she realized when she woke.  Aching, throbbing, nauseating pain had taken over the back of her head, and it was slowly creeping to the front.  She lifted her hand to brush her hair back, to find the source of the hurt.

                But her hand stopped short.  The clank of metal told her she was cuffed to the bedframe.  She tried the other hand, finding the same sound, and lifted her head to look.  Cuffs on both wrists.  A plain, striped mattress.  A metal bedframe that looked like something from the 60s.  She pulled harder on her right wrist, testing the limits of the cuffs, and hot pain burned in her shoulder, radiating down her arm.  Gingerly lifting her head, she looked, and saw dried blood crusted around a wound.  A bullet hole, she thought.  Nothing too serious, since it hadn’t hit anything major, but it hurt like a son of a bitch.  She exhaled sharply and lowered her head. 

                She looked around the room then, trying to figure out where she was.  The room was mostly brick – no decorations of any kind, with one weird metal wall. It looked industrial, but there seemed to be no entrances or exits.  Lifting her head again, wincing against the pain, she looked at the floor – and then she laughed.  A devil’s trap?  She was inside a devil’s trap?  Something had gone seriously wrong here. 

                Her laughter must have alerted her captors that she was awake, because within a minute she heard footsteps on the concrete floor.  Two sets, long strides, coming fast.  The metal wall split in the middle and opened outward, leaving two men in the opening.  They were tall – one was very tall – and both were good looking.  She could see at a glance that they knew how to handle themselves.  They were both lean and muscled, and their easy movements showed grace and athleticism.  The tall one’s long hair moved when he did, and his face was bruised, like he’d taken a few hard punches earlier that day.  The other one had short hair and was carrying a bag, which he set on the floor and unzipped.  He looked like he meant business – and the knife he pulled from his bag didn’t do anything to change that impression.

                Time to get started, she thought.  “Well boys,” she said laughingly, “I hate to come off as a tease, but I must have been a little too drunk when we met.  Whatever kinky business I had agreed to is definitely off the table now, since I can’t recall a single thing about how I got here.” That’s right, she thought, flirt a little, seem harmless.  In truth, she really couldn’t remember what happened.  The last thing she could remember was doing a little research on a case, seeing what was up with the two people who died violently in connection with a local bar.  One had been pummelled by some sort of blunt object, which no one could locate after the fact, and the other had suffered a heart attack, which was quite odd given that he was a 27-year-old athlete.  She’d gone to the bar to get a read on the place, but couldn’t remember leaving. 

                The short haired one smirked at her, not fooled by her coy smile, but she thought she saw a hint of amusement at her comments.  “Well, sweetheart,” he said, “why don’t we get to know each other a little, see if we can jog your memory?”  His voice was familiar somehow, gravelly and rough.  She couldn’t place it, but she was sure she knew it from somewhere. 

                “Dean,” the tall one said, “she seems different.”

                His eyes flickered over her, and she found herself wondering what he thought of her.  “She does,” he agreed.  “But then again Sammy, she seemed perfectly normal when we met her at the bar.” The two of them exchanged a look.  Sam nodded, and Dean spun the knife in the palm of his hand, quickly, efficiently, with the practiced ease of someone who’d spent a lot of time handling very sharp blades.  “Let me tell you how this is going to go,” he said to her, looking down to make eye contact.  “You’re going to tell me exactly what I want to know, and if you do, then I won’t kill you.  Got it?”

                She closed her eyes then, suddenly clear on what was happening. They actually thought she was a demon.  They must be hunters, and they thought she was the one killing people from the bar!  A smile flickered across her lips, just briefly, and then she opened her eyes.  “I’ll tell you anything I can, of course, but I think you guys have some wires crossed here.”  She watched them exchange another look.  “Do you think I’m a demon?  Is that what’s going on here?”

                Sam cocked his head, paused for a minute, and turned to the bag on the floor.  Rather than answer the question, he grabbed a flask and unscrewed the cap, walking toward the bed.  He poured holy water on her arm, looking quickly at Dean when nothing happened.  “Not a demon,” he said, “unless she’s a greater demon or a knight of hell.”

                “I’m not any sort of demon, you guys.  I’m a hunter, like you,” she told them. 

                Their faces showed surprise for a minute, but then shifted back to their interrogation masks – tough and hard.  “We’re going to need proof to believe that,” Dean said.  “Because hunter or not, you did things last night no one should be able to do, and it took two of us to take you out.”

                “I have no idea what happened last night!  I’m guessing that you shot me?  And you hit me in the head? It feels like I was hit with a frying pan back there,” she muttered.  She rattled her wrists in the cuffs.  “And that explains this, I suppose.” She looked up at Sam’s bruised face.  He was well over 6 feet tall, and since she stood just 5’6, it seemed impossible that she was the one who had inflicted such damage on him.  “Did I… Did I do that to you?” she asked.

                He nodded.  “So you can see why we’re going to need proof that you’re not possessed, or anything else,” he answered.  “You had me down and you were going for your gun when Dean shot you.”

                She exhaled sharply.  What the hell had happened?  Why couldn’t she remember anything?  And suddenly, a sharp thought – what if these guys weren’t hunters?

                “Well, you have me at a definite disadvantage now,” she responded, pulling on the cuffs and wincing at the pain it produced in her shoulder.  “And for all I know, you could be the demons, or whatever was killing people in that bar.  I need proof that I’m safe with you before I talk.”

                Sam nodded, and then poured the holy water on his own skin.  He reached for his knife, showed her the silver blade, and nicked his arm with the blade.  He then passed both to Dean, who did the same thing.  They looked at her, waiting.  “How do I know you’re hunters?  How can I trust that you’re not newbies who are going to get me killed?” 

Dean sighed and pulled the neckline of his shirt aside, showing her his tattoo.  “Trust me, we’re not new,” he said, nodding toward Sam, who did the same.  “We’ve been hunting our whole lives.  I’m Dean Winchester, and that’s my brother Sam.”

She relaxed then.  The tattoo meant they couldn’t be possessed, not even by demons who were too strong for the holy water to bother them.  “I’m Catherine,” she said. 

“And how do we know you’re not some crazy powerful demon?” Dean asked.

“I have the same tattoo,” she said.  He reached for the neck of her shirt, to check for himself. “Not in the same place, though,” she added.  Dean paused.  She shrugged.  “I didn’t want it somewhere that it would be seen, and I like v-neck shirts.  I didn’t want to tip a demon off to what I was if he happened to try to look down my shirt!”  Dean chuckled, and Sam cracked a smile.  “It’s on my left hip.  You’ll have to unzip my jeans to see it.”  
                Dean reached for her waistband, and even though she was cuffed to a bed and in a fair amount of pain, she had to hold her breath for a second when his fingers grazed her naked skin.  He snapped open the button, slid the zipper down, and she could feel her heart take the tiniest second longer to beat.  His fingers were gentle as he tugged her jeans and undies down on the left, just to see the tattoo there, inked darkly into the taut skin near her hipbone.  He looked at Sam and nodded, and when she looked, she could see that Sam had blushed slightly, aware of the strangeness in the room.  

                Dean let go of her pants and cleared his throat.  “Okay then.  Not a demon, and definitely a hunter.” 

                “No,” she answered, “not a demon.  Just a hunter who can’t remember anything after walking into that bar.”

                Sam crossed his arms.  “That’s a problem,” he said.  “If we don’t know what happened, we can’t un-cuff you.  You’re not possessed by a demon, that’s clear, but something took control of you last night, and we can’t risk having you loose if that happens again.  We nearly had to kill you last night.  We don’t want to be in that situation again.”

                The pain in her shoulder and head was getting worse, and she knew exactly what Sam was worried about.  “Fair enough,” she replied.  She was lucky Dean hadn’t shot her in the heart or head; most hunters wouldn’t bother trying to save the human that was possessed.  “We need to figure this out.  The last thing I remember is grabbing a drink at the bar.  I was there to investigate the deaths this week.  You too?” They nodded.  “I sat on a stool at the end of the bar, ordered a beer, and started to chat up the bartender.  He was telling me how there’d been three deaths in the bar this year, not two.  The two in the news, the guy who was beaten to death and the heart attack dude, got a lot of press because they were weird.  But the first one barely made the papers, because it was a sad local story that had nothing weird about it.”

                Sam pitched in then.  “Yeah, I found a short article about it.  I think his name was Stevens. Seemed unrelated when I was researching.  Old guy, in his seventies, hung out in the bar a lot, had a stroke while drinking at the bar, and died there.  It wasn’t his first stroke either - I think the article said he’d had one a few years before that left him a little bit damaged.” 

                “Right,” she added, “which was why the bartender figured no one noticed the second stroke.  He already had a hard time speaking clearly and moving well, so by the time they realized what was happening to him, it was too late.  No one really talked to him much, according to the bartender.  He sat at the bar every day, but the bartender told me he wasn’t the nicest guy before the first stroke, and was even more difficult after, so they kind of ignored him a lot of the time.  He died in the bar while the ambulance was still on the way.”

                “So, vengeful spirit, maybe?”  Dean walked toward the bag on the floor, bending over to rummage inside.  He stood up, salt in hand.  “Maybe the old guy who died in the bar is looking for revenge for being ignored until he died.”  He rattled the salt as he walked back toward the bed.

                “So you think he possessed me, because I sat in his spot at the bar?  And those other two people?”  Catherine thought about it.  It sort of made sense – she’d seen plenty of angry ghosts look for revenge.  “You’d think he’d go for the bartenders, since they ignored him.”

                “Yeah, but maybe it’s jealousy that’s making him act,” said Dean.  “When he sees someone getting the attention he wanted, that he needed to survive, he lashes out.  He jumps into the person, does something to make them die, then waits for the next victim.”

                “The first guy, the bludgeoned guy,” Sam worked it out, “was found in the bathroom after the bar closed.  He’d been there all night, drinking and talking to the bartender.  She said she was even going to give him her number, but he disappeared just before closing time.  When they found him, his head was beaten in, but there was no weapon.  Blood all over the room, right?  We’ve seen spirits who inflicted damage like that before.  Once Stevens possessed him, he got him alone, and then he crushed the guy’s skull, so he definitely wouldn’t get any more attention.”

                Dean nodded.  “And the second guy, the athlete, had gone to high school with one of the other bartenders, so they were talking all night about the good old days.  Stevens probably jumped into him, dragged him away from the bar, and then squeezed his heart.  Bang.  No one paying attention to him either.”  He paused.  “And you…”  His eyes traveled down to her, taking in her appearance.   Her jeans were fitted, and her black t-shirt was too, making sure her shape was highlighted.  Her shoulder-length brown hair had just a few caramel highlights, and framed her face perfectly.  Bright blue eyes were accented by a sweep of shimmery eyeshadow and liquid liner, and small silver hoops dangled from her ears.  A long silver chain was around her neck, dropped into her cleavage.  If it wasn’t for the bloody mess on her right shoulder, she’d look like any other 30-something single girl out for a night at the bar.  “What were you doing at that bar?  Flirting with the bar staff to get information.”

                She smiled.  “Hey, it works.  I’m sure you’ve done it a million times, green eyes.” Sam snickered, and Dean looked mildly offended. “If you had boobs, you’d use them to get information out of men too.”

                “Well… probably…” He smirked. 

                “I had a beer, and while I drank it, I talked with the bartender.  His name was Joey, and he’s worked there for years.  He knew all about Stevens and the two deaths.”

                “And?” Dean wanted more.

                “And… well, I may have hit on him a little,” she admitted, “and he was going for it.”

                “Which means,” said Sam, “that our theory is pretty solid.  If Stevens saw you getting all of Joey’s attention, then possessed you, it makes sense.  When we showed up at the bar, you were there, but you didn’t act like you do now.”

                “That’s for sure,” Dean huffed.  “When we tried to talk to Joey, and he left you to talk to us, things went south fast.  You were glaring at us.  There was only one other couple in the bar, and when they left, you came after us.  Do you remember any of this?”

                She shook her head, wincing at the pain her movement produced in her shoulder.  “No.  Nothing until I woke up here, I don’t think.”  But she felt a twinge of familiarity whenever Dean spoke, so maybe as the story went on it would come to her.

                “Well, when we came back to the bar to get a second round and talk to the bartender some more, you got really aggressive.  You shouted at us – told us to leave Joey alone and let you two talk – and he looked uncomfortable then.  You jumped onto the bar and came at Sam full speed.  I don’t even know what you did, really.  It looked like some kind of ninja move.  You leapt into the air, wrapped your legs around his neck, and spun him to the floor.  Your hands were flying, landing punches all over his face, and you were fast.  Your feet pinned his arms so they couldn’t move.”

                Same spoke up then.  “I’ve never felt anything like it, outside of demons.  You were so strong that it felt completely unnatural.”

                Dean went on.  “When you nearly had him out, you loosened your grip and stood.  That’s when I shot you.”

                “Did you… uh… was it a shoulder shot on purpose?”

                “Of course,” Dean said.  “My aim is excellent.  I wasn’t sure if you were a demon or a human, so I just wanted to slow you down and get you off Sam.  You dropped immediately when I shot you, so we tied you up and brought you back here.”  He smirked.  “I wouldn’t bother going back for that bartender’s number, though.  He hid under the bar when you started kicking Sammy’s ass all over the place.  I’m pretty sure he’s not going to want to spend any more time with you.”

                Sam rolled his eyes.  “Dean.  She didn’t kick my ass.”

                “Oh, she definitely kicked your ass.  When she’s freed up and healed up, you two should go another round, see if she can do it again.” 

                By this point, the pain in her shoulder was really starting to bother her.  She gritted her teeth.  “Okay, so what’s the plan?  Where’s Stevens buried?  Let’s find his grave and torch the bastard, so we can end this foolishness.”

                Sam and Dean made eye contact again, across her body.  Dean tapped the salt container in his palm, thinking.  “Well… we can do that, but we need to be sure the spirit didn’t come with you,” he said.  “Usually they’re tied to the place, but since he didn’t finish you off, maybe he’s just in hiding and waiting for his chance.” 

                She sighed.  “You want me to eat salt.” 

                “Yep.”

                “Don’t suppose it comes with a side of fries and a burger?”  Dean shook his head and opened the container.  He poured salt into his hand, while Sam went to the bag and grabbed a bottle of water.  Dean set down the container, slipped his free hand behind her head, and gently lifted, pouring salt from his open palm straight into her mouth.  Sam put the water bottle to her lips, tipping it in, and she swallowed, gagging on the salty liquid.  “Ugh,” she croaked, “more water please.”  Sam tipped again, then Dean laid her head back down.  “Guess we’re clear,” she said.  He began pouring a salt line around the bed, circling her.  “What are you doing?”

                “Oh come on, you know what this is,” he answered.

                “Of course, but aren’t we going to find that grave?”

                “Sam’s going to go do the research, find out where he is,” Dean replied.  “But you are in no condition to go anywhere, and we don’t want Stevens jumping back in if he’s around.”  Sam stepped out of the room while Dean poured, and came back with a tray.  He pulled a chair over next to the bed, and laid the tray beside her on the bed before he left.  “While Sam does that, I’m going to fix up your shoulder and have a look at your head.”  
                “Yeah, what happened to my head?”  She couldn’t remember that part either. 

                Dean looked sheepish.  “Well, after I shot you, I walked over to Sam to make sure he was okay.  You were down, but after a minute, you moved.  When you started to get up, I, uh, hit you with a barstool.”

                “A barstool?”

                “It was the first thing I grabbed.”  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the cuff keys.  He unlocked her left wrist, and then her right.  “Lie still, okay?  I’m going to have to rip your shirt to see your shoulder,” he said.  “I can take you to a hospital later, but not until we gank that spirit.  If he’s been inside you once, you’re an easy target for a second round.”

                Gently, he lifted the fabric of her shirt away from her shoulder and pulled.  It split easily where the hole was, tearing all the way through to the neckline and the sleeve, so her shoulder and the top of her chest was exposed.  He lifted her bra strap aside, sliding it down her arm.  He poured a little water on a cloth and wiped away the blood, carefully working closer to the wound.  She closed her eyes and tried not to flinch too much; it wasn’t deep, she didn’t think, but it had definitely touched a nerve or two, and it hurt more than just about anything she could remember. 

                “Good news or bad?” He asked.  Her eyes opened. 

                “Bad first.  Always bad first.”

                “Well, the bullet is in a little deeper than I thought.  Sorry.”  He leaned over to the tray, picked up a knife and long tweezers.  “The good news is that it’s all in one piece, and I can get it out now if you want.  It’ll hurt, but you can avoid the hospital and a lot of questions about who shot you.”

                She sighed.  “Do it.”  She gripped the mattress tightly and took a deep breath.  Dean picked up a bottle of liquor that was on the tray and offered it to her.  She took a mouthful, steeling herself, and then he did too, before pouring it directly on the bullet wound.  It was like fire, burning in her throat and her shoulder, all at once.  She gasped, not ready for the pain, arching her back, and he pressed one hand on her shoulder to hold her steady.  His other hand forced the tweezers into the hole, grasping at the bullet, scraping down the tract.  She let out a sound, a short, sharp cry, and then snapped her teeth together, breath hissing from between them.

                Dean spoke quietly as she struggled with the pain.  “Almost got it, hold on sweetheart… Just need a little bit more…” There was blackness at the edge of her vision, creeping in, when he said “Got it!” and the pain began to recede.  He pulled it out, and picked up the bottle again, showing her what he was doing.  “One more, okay?  Then I’ll stitch it up.” She nodded, and he poured.  The fire lapped at her shoulder again, and her breath came faster, sharper.  She felt his hand grab hers, fingers pressing her palm, other hand near her neck, holding her.  “Okay?  That’s the worst, you’ll be okay.”

                She caught her breath, and looked up into his bottle-green eyes.  “I’ve never been shot before, you know.  This hurts like a son of a bitch.”

                He smiled.  “I know.”  He grabbed something from the tray, and held it out to her.  “Here.  Take these.” Two pills trickled into her palm.  “They’ll take the edge off the worst of it.”  He grabbed the water, slipped his hand behind her head again, and lifted so she could drink.  “I’ll have a look at your head before I stitch you up.  I don’t think you need stitches back there or anything, but an ice pack might do you good.”

                “I feel a little shaky,” she admitted.

                “Well, you did lose a lot of blood,” he said, looking at her shoulder again.  She glanced down at her shirt, realizing that it was soaked with blood all the way to the hem, and that it had slipped where he’d ripped it open.  The top of her breast was exposed, her lacy bra bloody against the soft skin.  It had gotten pulled down when she wiggled in pain, and another inch lower would expose her nipple.  She used her left hand to pull her shirt up a little, realizing that Dean was watching her, a tight expression on his face.  He cleared his throat.  “Turn your head, let me see the back.” His voice was rougher than usual.

                He slid his hands along the curve of her skull, pressing gently, asking her how it felt.  It was sore and tender to the touch, but the skin hadn’t broken.  “The lump’s pretty big,” Dean said.  “When Sam gets back, I’ll get you an ice pack.”

                “I’ll survive,” she told him. “I’m sure I’ve had much worse than this.”  He smiled at her, knowing all hunters had more than their fair share of injuries.  “Once I cracked four ribs in a fight with a werewolf.  It hurt to breathe for weeks.  At the time, I thought I’d punctured a lung!”

                Dean smirked.  “And what happened to the werewolf?” he asked.

                “Well, I had originally planned to just shoot the thing, but the cracked ribs pissed me off, so I ended up chopping off its head rather violently.”  He chuckled as he picked up the needle and thread.  He offered her the bottle again, but she shook her head.  He shrugged and took another mouthful.  “I have to make a confession,” she said as he leaned in to start. He paused, eyebrow raised, waiting for her next words.  “I’m not a huge fan of getting stitches.  I don’t care about the needle, or the pain, but I hate the pulling sensation when the thread slides through.  So, I might need you to talk to me about something else while we do this.”

                His smile widened.  “What should we talk about?”

                “Anything, really.  Recipes, movies, gardening tips, whatever.”  He tipped his head at that, laughing silently at her suggestions.  “Your hunting history, your trickiest cases, Sam – anything that will give me something to think about instead of that thread pulling through my flesh.”

                “Alright then,” Dean replied.  “Let me tell you about the time Sammy and I played marriage counsellor to a pair of feuding witches.”  He launched into the story, telling it bit by bit, as he started to sew.  From time to time he paused in what he was doing with his hands, especially when he could see Catherine getting close to her threshold of pain and discomfort.  She flinched each time the needle pulled into the air, and unfortunately, Dean had to make a few more stitches than he originally thought.  Near the end, she shut her eyes and held tightly to the mattress, trying to hold out for a few more minutes.  Truth be told, this hurt more than she’d expected, and she really wasn’t feeling great.  Her head ached, her shoulder felt like fire, and she was beginning to feel weak and queasy from the weird sensation the stitches were giving her.   
                “Dean,” she breathed, “please tell me you’re almost done.  I’m not a fainter, but I’m not feeling so hot here.”  Her face was white, and she could only manage shallow breaths. 

                “Hang on, sweetheart,” he said.  “Last one.  Hang on.”

                Through the fog in her head, something in her memory shook free.  She remembered him saying that before.  Earlier, maybe, before she’d known them.  She vaguely remembered being carried, and hurting, and Dean’s voice saying “hang on” as she tried to wake up.  It must have been when they brought her here, she thought. 

                “All done,” he told her.  He picked up the towel, poured water on her shoulder, and washed it clean.  Then he taped a bandage in place before lifting her bra strap back onto her shoulder.  “It’ll ache for a while, but the pain should settle soon.”

                “Thanks,” she responded. 

                “I’m going to go check on Sam, see how the research went.  We should be able to burn that body today, unless it’s hard to find.  Then you’ll be safe for sure.”

                Her thoughts weren’t totally clear yet, so she thought she’d better ask.  “Dean, when you brought me here, did someone carry me in?”  He nodded.  “I… I think I remember.  I heard Sam ask you to open the door, and then you said to hang on.  I remembered when you said that just now.  And then I opened my eyes, and you told him I was awake.  As soon as I moved the pain started and I blacked out.”

                “You did wake up, just for a second,” he told her.  “Just as we walked through the doors of the bunker.”

                “But I can’t remember anything from when the ghost possessed me,” she said.  “If I can remember that, then I wasn’t possessed then.  I bet the ghost left me when we walked through the doors – are there sigils or runes there that would ward off vengeful spirits?  If he was knocked loose then, that would mean I’m safe now.”

                “I’ll check,” Dean said.  “Stay here.  Rest a few minutes.  Sam and I will be back.”  She closed her eyes as he walked away, taking a few deep breaths to get herself together.  How much blood did she lose?  Her shirt was soaked, and the towels Dean had used were pretty bloody too, not to mention whatever had poured onto the floor of the bar.  And her head was hurting more the longer she was awake.  The pain pills Dean had given her hadn’t kicked in yet, clearly.  She needed to get up, though, and get moving.  If the spirit was still out there, she had to go take care of it; that was her job. 

                Catherine shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts.  She gripped the side of the bed with her left hand, cradling her right arm to her body, trying to keep from moving her arm, which made the pain sing through her whole body.  She swung her feet to the left of the bed, slowly pulling herself upright, and sat there for a minute, feeling the heaviness in her head seep down her whole body.  _You can do this_ , she told herself.  _Get up, find the guys, gank the spirit_.  She shook her head again, wondering if she had a concussion from the barstool.  She took a deep breath and pushed herself to her feet.  Unsteadily she moved upright, left arm out for balance.  She heard Sam and Dean talking, and looked at the door as they entered.  She tried to step toward them, to meet them there, but it was too much.  Her legs collapsed as she stepped, and she started to crumple, folding toward the floor.  Sam and Dean darted forward, their hands grabbing her just in time to lay her back on the bed.  Things were fuzzy now, soft around the edges, and their voices sounded like they were far away. 

                “What… you doing?”  Dean, velvet over grit, scolding gently.  “…hurt… lost blood…”  She wasn’t getting all of the words he said. 

                Sam now.  “… probably concussion… doctor?”

                “No… hunt… can’t leave her though…”

                Someone was wiping her face with a cool cloth now, and that helped her to swim back to the surface.  She blinked, trying to focus.   “Sorry… I thought I was okay…” Her apology sounded silly, even to her own ears.  “I’ll be alright in a few more minutes.”  She saw them exchange a look.  “We’ll go find the spirit, just give me a chance to get my head straight.”

                Dean looked at her, shook his head.  “That’s not going to happen,” he said.  “Sam agreed that you’re probably safe in here, since you remember waking up.  But you’re clearly not ready to go back out for another round.”

                Sam nodded.  “And you can’t be left alone.  You probably have a concussion, and you’ve lost a couple of pints of blood for sure.”

                “I’ll be fine,” she protested.

                Sam continued.  “Dean’s going to stay here with you.  Stevens is buried in a cemetery just over an hour from here, so I’m going to go deal with him.”

                “You shouldn’t go alone,” she said.  “Stevens might see you coming.”

                “It’s time for the bar to open soon, and we think he’ll be there, watching the bartenders, just like last night.  It’s the safest time to go.  I’ll dig him up, salt and burn him, and be back in a couple of hours.”  Sam smiled at her, confident in his plan.  “Meanwhile, Dean’s going to watch you sleep and make sure to wake you up every hour, just in case he gave you a concussion with that barstool.”

                Dean rolled his eyes.  “You make it sound like I attacked her for fun!  She was beating the crap out of you, Sammy.  Like… you were getting pounded by a 5-foot-6 girl.  What was I supposed to do?”

                “Whatever, Dean, you get what I’m saying,” Sam was already exasperated.  “I’m going to hit the road.  I’ll call when it’s done.”  He walked out of the room, smiling at Catherine first. 

                Her head was clearer now, but she still felt weak.   “Dean?  Can I have some more water?  I think it will help me feel better.”  He picked up a bottle and opened it, holding it out to her.  She struggled to sit up, and he stepped in at once, sitting on the edge of the bed and helping her up, then holding her while she took a drink.

                “Here, lean back against me,” he said.  She did, feeling his warmth, leaning against his solid muscle, letting him take her weight.  She drank some more, and then he took the bottle.   “Not too much.  If you have a concussion, you’ll end up sick later and it will make you feel worse.”  She shuddered. 

                “Do you have a shower I could use?” she asked.  “I feel disgusting, and I’m covered in blood.  I’d feel better if I could get clean, I think.”

                He nodded.  “Yeah.  When you’re ready, I’ll take you.”

                “I think I’m okay,” she said.  “Just… I might need a hand.” It was hard to admit; she was used to being self-sufficient.  Most hunters were the same.  Tough, stubborn, and incredibly independent – that might as well have been the hunter motto.  But, she figured, Dean was the same, and he’d know what it cost her to ask for help.

                She moved slowly, swinging her legs around, leaving her weight against Dean.  His arm snaked around her waist, pulling her into him, so he could keep her upright if she faltered.  “Ready?” he asked.  She nodded.  Slowly she stood up, finding herself steadier than last time.  The nausea from the stitches had passed, so she was pretty sure she’d be okay from here on out.  “Okay?” Dean was watching her, making sure she wasn’t going to fall. 

                “I think I’m okay,” she told him.  “We can walk.”  He helped her out of the room, which was hidden behind storage shelves, it seemed.  They walked slowly through the halls, Dean grasping her weight, until they arrived at a bedroom.  Dean pushed open the door and walked her to the bed, sitting her on the edge.

                “The bathroom’s right there,” he said, pointing to the door in the corner.  “I’ll get you some towels.  Do you think you’ll be okay to stand up in the shower?  I don’t think you should lie down in the bathtub.  You probably do have a concussion,” he admitted ruefully.

                “I’ll take a short shower,” she promised, “and I’ll leave the door unlocked. If you hear a huge thump, come drag me out?”  He laughed a little, agreeing.  “And Dean, would you happen to have any clothes I could borrow?” She looked down at her shirt, saw that the right side of it was totally destroyed, and her bra was keeping her from being totally exposed.  Dean followed her gaze, head tilted to one side. 

                “Uh, yeah,” he turned and rummaged in a drawer.  “This will be huge on you, but you can take this t-shirt, and these pajama pants have a drawstring, so you can tie those up tight and they won’t fall off you.  Your t-shirt’s ruined, but if you pass me your other clothes when you take them off, I can toss them in the washer for you, so you can get your own things back soon.” 

                She blushed, thinking about handing Dean her lacy bra and panties to wash.  She always wore nice things; hunting was such an ugly life most of the time, and wearing pretty lingerie was her one luxury.  Even when she was covered in blood and bruises, she always had on something nice under her clothes.  “Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?”   

                He shook his head, stepping from the room to get towels.  “It’s no big deal,” he called back.  “You can’t go around in my pants forever.  You’ll trip on the bottoms.”  He came back with a huge, fluffy white towel, and came to her side.  “Come on, up again and into the bathroom.  I’ll get you inside and then wait out here in case you need me.”  He picked up the clothes, held them with the towel, and held his other arm out for her.  She stood, less shaky, and let him wrap his arm around her again.  God, he was solid and warm.  And he smelled great – like soap and sunlight.  “Just pop open the door when you’re out of your clothes and hand them out.” 

                In the bathroom, she peeled herself out of her bloody clothes, careful not to move her right arm much.  Everything was bloody – right down to her underwear – and she realized that if the guys hadn’t taken care of her shoulder, she might have bled to death.  She opened the door a crack and Dean was there, looking the other way, hand out for her clothes.  Shyly she placed her jeans in his hand, and then her bra and panties.

                Showering was awkward.  Her right shoulder burned and ached, and she peeled off Dean’s bandage to wash it clean again.  She struggled to wash her hair with one hand, and after a few minutes under the water, she knew she needed to sit down again.  The hot water felt wonderful though, so she held out as long as possible before stepping out.  Wrapped in a towel, she sat on the edge of the tub for a rest.  Dean knocked on the door.  “You alright?  The water stopped a while ago, but I haven’t heard any noise since.”

                She sighed.  “Yeah… I just ran out of energy when I got out.” She checked herself quickly, made sure everything was covered, and told him he could open the door.  “I took the bandage off my shoulder in the shower.  Could you put another one on?” She asked.  He stepped into the room, opening the medicine cabinet, pulling out gauze and tape.  She could see him looking at her as he put the gauze in place and cut the tape, and she wondered what he was thinking.  Most men were pretty transparent; Dean’s face was a mystery a lot of the time.

                “All done,” he said.  “Do you need help getting dressed?”

                She shook her head.  I think I can manage.  I’ll be out in a minute.”  He stepped out, closing the door softly.  She slipped the clothes on, knotting the string in the waist of the pants tightly, and rolling the bottoms up about 8 inches.  She borrowed the comb on the sink and ran it through her hair, and found a new toothbrush in the cabinet.  All in all, she felt a thousand times better than before. 

                When she stepped out of the bathroom, she found Dean stretched out on the bed.  She crossed the room and sat on its edge.  “How was it?” Dean propped himself up on his elbows to talk to her.

                “I feel so much better,” she answered.  “Still a little weak, but a lot better than before.”

                “Good,” he acknowledged.  “You’ll be back to normal pretty quickly.  You need to rest for a few days.  You can stay here with us.  Like Sam said, you’ll have to be woken up tonight in case you do have a concussion.”  He hopped up from the bed and turned back the covers.  “Hop in.  You can sleep here tonight.” 

                She looked at him, a little confused.  “But isn’t this your room?” His clothes were in the drawers, after all. 

                He smiled at her.  “Yes, and the bed is extremely comfortable.  Memory foam.” He paused.  “I’m not walking all over the place to wake you up every hour.   It’s a big bed.  You sleep here, and I’ll sleep on that side.” He pointed.  “I hit you with a barstool.  I’d bet money that you have a concussion.   If we’re together, and you get worse, then I’m here to deal with it.  If you’re alone in another room, you might not be able to get up and get me.”

                “Are you sure?” she asked. His logic was pretty solid, and it was a big bed. 

                “I’m sure.”  He walked over to her and took her elbow, helping her up.  She climbed into the bed, lying back on the pillow, and he spread the blanket up over her.  Then he lay down on the other side, on top of the covers.  He toed his shoes off his feet, kicking them to the side.  There was an awkward silence.

                “So… it really is a nice bed,’ she agreed.  Dean smiled.  He seemed to be able to lie there in silence without talking, but she felt like she needed to say something.  “Should we, maybe, talk a little?  Get to know each other?”  He looked over at her, eyebrow raised.  “You know, since we’re going to be sleeping together.”  That made him smile, and the awkwardness dissolved. 

                The small talk started then.  How long have you been hunting, what’s the weirdest thing you ever fought, that sort of thing.  Before long they were talking easily, and soon after that, the exhaustion began to win out over the strangeness of sleeping next to a stranger.  Catherine drifted off, listening to Dean talk about Sam and their life on the road.  Each hour, Dean woke her, made sure she was okay, and gave her a little more water to drink.  When he began to feel sleepy, he set his alarm to go off each hour, and closed his eyes. 

                She woke in the night, just once on her own, startled into alertness by a sound in the hall.  Sam’s footsteps moved through the building, quietly, as he returned from the hunt.  She was lying on her back, warm beneath the covers, and next to her, Dean slept soundly.  Sam’s head appeared in the doorway, and she lifted her head to make eye contact.  He saw that Dean was asleep and smiled.  “Everything go okay?” she whispered.

                “Perfectly,” he answered in a low voice.  “You alright?”

                She nodded, careful not to wake Dean.  “I’ll be okay.  Dean wakes me up every hour – he just fell asleep, I think.”  Dean stirred slightly, and they both held their breath.

                “I’m off to bed too,” Sam said.  “See you in the morning.”  He disappeared from the door with a smile, and she heard a door open and close nearby.  Dean shifted again at the sound, tossing in his sleep.  He rolled toward her and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling into her, like they’d slept together every night of their lives.  She felt him - warm, solid, strong – and drifted off to sleep like that, the ghost of the smile on her face the only spirit left in her possession.


	2. Chapter 2

                “Hey.  Hey, Catherine.  Time to wake up, sweetheart.”

                She heard the voice, rough and familiar, but she couldn’t place it.  She drifted, not quite asleep and not quite awake yet.  She had the vague sense that she should open her eyes, but they felt so heavy that she kept them closed.  Just let me sleep, she thought.  Just let me sleep…

                A hand on her arm, another on her face, pushing back her hair, cupping her cheek.  “Come on, wake up,” the voice insisted.  “You can’t sleep any more, or you’ll probably sleep forever.”  Gentle shaking.  “Son of a bitch.”  She dozed, just beneath the surface of consciousness, unable to wake herself.

                Then cold.  Cold and wet.  She gasped, snapping awake, jolting to alertness.  Icy cold water poured onto her face and chest, and above that, Dean’s worried face stared at her, eyes as green as leaves and full of fear.  She raised her arms to block the flow of water, and pain shot through her shoulder.  She let out a small sound, then bit her lip and forced herself to hold it in.  The water stopped, and Dean was talking to her.  “… okay?  I need you to talk to me, to say something… Catherine?  CATHERINE?”

                She sputtered a response.  “Yes, okay, I’m okay.”  She wiped her face with her left hand, noticing that the ache in her head was still there.  “What’s the matter?  What’s happening?”

                He looked worried still.  “You wouldn’t wake up.  I called your name, I shook you, and you were still asleep.  So I got cold water and poured it on you.”  He shook his head.  “I woke you every hour most of the night, and you always seemed fine, so when I got up this morning I let you sleep a little longer.  When you didn’t wake up easily, I thought something might be wrong.”

                She blinked at him, wondering if he was always this protective.  “I… I think I’m okay?  I still feel awful, to be honest, but no worse than before.”  He watched her carefully, waiting for her to explain.  “My head aches, and my shoulder burns, so business as usual.”

                Dean got off the bed and paced the room.  He was still in last night’s clothes, she noticed.  He hadn’t left her at all since he brought her to his room, other than to throw her clothes in the laundry.  He stopped pacing and looked straight at her.  “Okay, here’s the plan.  You are going to stay awake for a little while right now.  But you are spending the rest of the day in bed.  If I can’t wake you up again, then I’m going to take you to a doctor and get your head checked.”

  
                “Dean,” she said patiently, “if I go to a doctor and they see my shoulder, they’ll call the police and report a gunshot wound.  I’m not up for explaining that you shot me because I was possessed by a vengeful spirit.”  It was almost always best for hunters to avoid hospitals.  They asked too many questions, and there were too many risks.  Wrong answers could lead to a police lockup or a 72-hour psych hold.  “I’m sure I’ll be fine.  I must have been deep in a dream, that’s all.”

                He didn’t want to accept that.  “No,” he said.  “You were really out.  I was about ten seconds away from putting you in the car and taking you to the hospital.”

                “But I’m awake now, and it’s all okay. I’ll stay up for a bit, like you said.  Actually, I’d like to get up and use the washroom, maybe brush my teeth.  And, you know, dry off,” she said.  Dean came to her side, ready to help her stand.  She sat up carefully, slowly, and paused a second to let her head get used to gravity.  Dean reached down to take her weight as she stood, steadying her when she wasn’t surefooted.  She felt dizzy and lightheaded, which made sense for someone who’d lost blood and had a concussion.  He walked her to the bathroom and waited at the door.  When she was done, he walked her back to bed, moving her to the other side, away from the puddle he’d created.

                “Oh good,” she commented drily, “I hate sleeping in the wet spot.”  Then she blushed, realizing what she’d said.  Dean was looking at her, smirk on his face and eyebrow raised.  “I… uh… normally don’t make jokes like that to people I’ve just met,” she said, not meeting his eyes.  Her face was bright red, she was sure. 

                Dean chuckled quietly, and sat beside her on the bed.  He reached for the neck of her shirt (his shirt, actually).  “Might as well check your shoulder while you’re awake,” he said.  He pulled the material to one side and gently peeled the tape and gauze back.  “Well, it’s ugly, but it isn’t infected.  You’re going to have one hell of a scar.” He pressed the bandage back in place, trying not to hurt her, noticing when she winced.  “Mind if I feel the back of your head again? See if the lump there has gone down any?”  He slid his two hands around her head, lifting it slightly, and his fingers mapped her skull ever so gently.  “This seems a little better,” he told her, “but it’s still pretty tender, I’d bet.”  
                She closed her eyes and hummed her agreement as he let go of her head.  “It’s the worst headache I’ve ever had, including the time I got tanked on tequila after hunting a djinn.”  He smiled down at her.  “Think you could set me up with some more of those painkillers?  And some water?”

                When she’d taken the pills and downed half a bottle of water, she realized Dean was still watching her from the edge of the bed.  She smiled at him, wondering what he’d thought when he’d woken up last night and found himself curled up with her, arm thrown around her waist, face tucked against her shoulder.  He’d moved by the time he woke her up again. 

                “Are you okay with staying here?” he asked.  “Like… is there an angry boyfriend or husband who’s going to want to kick my ass for shooting you yesterday?”

                She laughed.  “No, Dean.  There’s no one.  I was hunting alone, and I’m not with anyone.”

                “Do you have stuff?  We can go get it for you, or after I know you won’t slip into a coma and die, I can take you back to it.”  

                “If I don’t die, hey?”  She giggled.  He was blunt, and she liked it.  “I was staying in a motel near the bar.  My stuff is there, and I’ll have to get it at some point.  I paid for the room for the week, so it should be safe for another few days.”  He nodded.  “But I’ll probably need to get it, if I’m going to stay here until I’m more healed up.”

                “You have a car there?”

                She nodded again.  “Yeah.  I’ll need to get that too.”

                “Sam and I can run up there this afternoon and get your things.  You just give us the keys and we’ll handle the rest.”  Dean paused.  “What kind of car?”

                “Jeep, actually.  Not a yuppie Jeep like you’d see in the suburbs, though.  More like a utility vehicle.”

                “Okay.  We’ll make a plan.  In the meantime, back to sleep for you.”  Dean pulled the covers up, and stood beside the bed.  “I’ll be back to wake you in an hour.”  He crossed the room to turn off the lights. 

                She closed her eyes, following directions.  Sleep would be the best thing for her damaged body, she knew, and Dean’s bed was ridiculously comfortable.  She exhaled slowly, relaxing into the mattress, waiting to slide into sleep.  “Thanks Dean,” she murmured, already feeling sleepy. 

                She heard his footsteps then, walking quickly to the bed, and his hand brushed her hair back from her forehead.  His lips touched her skin in a soft kiss.  “Welcome, sweetheart,” he answered.  “Now sleep, okay?” 

 

               

                She slept well then, but not for long.  When she woke, she could hear running water, and the door of the bathroom was ajar.  Steam curled out of the doorway, wrapping its fingers around the frame before disappearing.  Dean was in the shower, and apparently, he liked the water to be very hot.  She could almost feel the heat across the room.

                The water stopped, and a minute later, Dean appeared in the doorway, wearing a towel around his hips.  He smiled at her.  “Did I wake you?” he asked as he stepped to the dresser.  He opened the drawers and rummaged for clothes. 

                “No,” she answered.  “I think the drugs kicked in again, and I feel a lot better.  I’m hungry.  I think that’s what woke me up.”

                Dean pulled a black t-shirt from the drawer and bumped it shut with his hip as he turned to speak to her.  She couldn’t help but notice his body.  He was lean and strong, with no extra fat anywhere.  His arm muscles flexed with every movement, and when he pulled the shirt over his head, his abs contracted and she could see each muscle work.  “Well, I’m heading out to have a late breakfast with Sam.  Want me to bring you in something, or do you feel well enough to come out there to eat?”  He opened another drawer and pulled out a pair of boxer briefs, also black, and turned his back to her.  He slipped them beneath the towel and pulled them up, giving her just a tiny glimpse of his butt as he did.  Then he dropped the towel and pulled on his jeans.  Dean clearly wasn’t shy, she thought to herself.  He sat on the bed to put on socks and shoes.

                “Well, I wouldn’t mind moving around a bit,” Catherine answered.  The bed bounced a little as he moved.  “I just need a few minutes to get cleaned up.  And my clothes, maybe?  Like… I need my bra and panties.”  He smirked at her over his shoulder, and she blushed.  Dean wasn’t shy about this, and normally she wasn’t either, but something made her feel a little nervous bringing it up to him. 

                He nodded.  “They should be dry, and your jeans too.  You can use the bathroom to get ready while I go get your stuff.” 

                He stood and left the room, leaving her to press her hands to her pink cheeks.  She shook her head, trying to get herself together.  In the bathroom, she washed her face and brushed her teeth, using the things Dean had left out for her, and then used his comb to pull the knots out of her hair. She had to use her left hand, since her right shoulder was out of commission, and that made things much more challenging.  She was quick getting ready, pausing only to wonder about deodorant.  She uncapped Dean’s, smelled it, and with a shrug, applied it.  It smelled a little manly, but it would do the trick.  When Dean knocked on the door a moment later to pass her clothes to her, she dressed in them hurriedly.  It was easy to pull on her panties and jeans, but putting her bra on was impossible.  With the hole in her shoulder, she couldn’t reach behind herself to do up the clasps, and when she put it on around her waist and spun it around, she couldn’t move her arm well enough to get through the strap and up over her shoulder.  She sighed in frustration.  She was going to have to ask for help.

                She opened the door just a little.  “Dean?”

                “Yeah?  Need something?”

                “I, uh… can’t do up my bra.”  She could hear him trying not to laugh.  “Can you help me?”

                “Sure,” he chuckled, “although I usually just take these off women, not put them on.  Can I come in now?” 

                “Yes,” she replied, turning to face away from the door.  She had the bra on, and her arms crossed in front of her to hold the cups in place.  She watched him in the mirror, his eyes on her skin as he entered.  Her naked back was toward him, and when he was close to her, she head his breath catch.  He stepped closer, and his warm hands touched her back.  She felt the fabric tug as he did up the hooks, and then, unexpectedly, he ran his hands beneath the band and straps, settling it into the right place.  His eyes were on her body; his hands skimmed down her sides, resting on her hips, and he leaned in toward her.

                “Catherine…” he paused, breathing her scent. “Are you wearing my deodorant?” His voice was rough, laughing and curious.  His eyes met hers in the mirror and she laughed too. 

                “I had to make do,” she smiled at him, shyness gone now.  “I hope you don’t mind.”

                “It smells good on you,” he admitted. 

                “Can you help me with my t-shirt?” she asked, turning to face him. “It was really hard to get on last night.”  She had to keep his t-shirt, since her own was destroyed.  He nodded, and picked up the shirt.  He found the armhole for her injured side, and gently guided her wounded arm through it. Then he popped it over her head, and held the other side for her to put her arm into.  He tugged it down, fingertips brushing her skin again.

                “Ready?”  She nodded.  “Okay, this place can be a bit confusing the first few times you walk around, because the hallways make everything look the same.  So I’ll show you where to go.”  They left the room, and found themselves in a dimly lit hallway.  “Down there,” he pointed, “there’s a garage, and a couple of storage rooms, and our dungeon, which you’ve already seen.”  He turned the other way.  “Sam’s room is right here, just down the hall from me and across the way.”  He walked in that direction, waving at her to follow.  “At the end of this hall, if you turn left you’ll find the kitchen.  Sam’s in there now, making bacon, I think.  He’ll bring the food out in a minute, he said.”  He turned right.  “And here are the main rooms in the bunker.”

                The hallway opened up into a huge room, full of books.  Two tables sat in the centre, one spread with books and research.  Weapons hung on the walls, made into deadly art displays.  Through an archway and down some stairs, there was another, less formal room, where ancient computer technology seemed to sit.  It was the nerve centre of the building, clearly, and it was meant for people like them.

                “This is…” she couldn’t find the words.

                “Awesome?” Dean suggested. 

                “Awesome,” she agreed.  His hand touched the centre of her back, guiding her forward, and he sat her in one of the chairs at the empty table.  She heard footsteps, and Sam called out to Dean, asking him to come carry some of the food.  Dean went to help, leaving her alone there.  She tilted her head back, looking at the books of lore that climbed to the ceiling, at the scimitars and sabres that masqueraded as décor, and smiled. 

                The boys entered, carrying trays of food and drinks.  Sam put a plate in front of her, with eggs, bacon, and toast.   Dean gave her a glass of apple juice, and then they sat with their own food.  She was starving, she realized, and the smell of the food was making her stomach growl.  She sipped her juice and took a bite of the toast before starting on the eggs.  She had to use her left hand to eat, which was proving to be a little difficult, since she was right-handed.  But the ache in her shoulder reminded her to keep her arm cradled in her lap, and to avoid moving her shoulder too much.  “This place is amazing,” she said between bites.  “What is it?” 

                “Years ago, there was a group of researchers who studied all things supernatural,” Sam told her.  “They were called the Men of Letters, and they used this place to store all of their best research.  It’s a complicated story, but it turns out that our grandfather was one of them, and apparently, we’re legacies.  We ended up with a key and we’ve been here ever since.”

                Dean swallowed his bacon.  “Yeah, long enough to find out that there’s so much stuff here that we’ll never get through it all.  There’s lore here on things we’ve never heard of or seen, and we’ve been hunting a long time.”

                Catherine wasn’t surprised by that.  After last night’s adventure, she knew they were more than experienced hunters.  She suspected they were exceptional; the average hunter wouldn’t have handled things the way they did.  They were careful, and they thought things through.  Any other hunter would have shot her dead at the bar, and left the mess behind, only to find out later that the spirit was still there and still vengeful.   And the average hunter wouldn’t be here, either – they’d have moved on to the next hunt already, unconcerned with the treasure trove of information in this place.  Most hunters worked on their own information, or called other hunters for help, or googled things.  But keeping a library like this running indicated long term plans, which most hunters would never make.

                “How long?” she asked, finding that she wanted to know them, to know more about them.

                They looked at each other.  “All our lives,” Dean said bluntly, and Sam looked away for a minute.  “We grew up on the road with our Dad.”

                “We had more weapons than toys as kids,” Sam said.  There was something in the air between them, something unsaid about their lives.  Sam’s words had a tinge of sadness in them, but Dean’s didn’t.  She figured he’d loved it all, but Sam had wanted something else, something more. 

                Dean cleared his throat.  “You going to eat your bacon?” She pushed it toward him, letting him take the rest from her plate.  “What about you?” he asked, bacon in his mouth already.  “How’d you get into hunting?”

                She thought for a second, toying with her fork.  It wasn’t a happy story, but then, no hunter got into this for happy reasons.  “When I was 17, I went away to school.  I went home for Thanksgiving weekend, and when I walked into my parents’ house, everything was destroyed.  They were there, with eyes as black as pitch, laughing at the mess, with my sister tied in a chair.  She was terrified, and they knew it.  They were demons, which I didn’t know at the time, and they loved her fear.  When I walked in and she screamed for my help, they killed her, and I watched her die.”  She paused, looking at the boys.  They had stopped eating, and were both watching her, their faces stony.  They knew how it ended.  “They were going to kill me too, but when they came after me, I fought back.  I held them off for a little while, but eventually, they beat me up pretty badly and had me pinned.  I was on the floor, bleeding and broken, and they had a kitchen knife to my throat, ready to slice.  And then the cops burst in.  The neighbours had heard my sister scream, had heard all the breaking and smashing of the fight, and they’d called the police.  As soon as they saw the police, the demons smoked out.  They didn’t want the fun to end in a jail cell.  But they’d taken their destruction pretty far by then, even stabbing my parents’ bodies before I showed up, so that when they left the bodies my parents would die without being able to tell anyone what had happened.  So I watched them die too, after black smoke poured from their mouths, and I lost my whole family in 30 minutes.”

                Sam and Dean were silent.  She knew they had heard stories like this over and over – she had too – and that they probably had one of their own.  “So, when I got out of the hospital, and all my broken bones healed, I started hunting.  I researched demons, found out how to draw a devil’s trap, taught myself to shoot.  I made it my life’s goal to find the demons who killed my parents, and to send them back to hell.  I never went back to college – they said they’d hold my scholarship for me, but since then I just haven’t been able to walk away from this.”

                “Did you find them?” Sam asked, quietly.

                She nodded.  “Yeah.  A few years ago, I was over in Texas looking into some demon activity.  They were there, and I handled it.  They aren’t a problem anymore.”  She looked at her plate, watched her fingers shred the remaining toast into tiny bits.  “I thought I’d stop when I killed them, but I’m still hunting.  There’s… too much left to do to give it up, you know?”

                No one said anything then, lost in thoughts about their own lives for a minute, wondering if they’d ever stop hunting.  She looked up to find Dean looking at her, intensely, and she had a flash of what a normal life could be with him – a house, picket fence, mini-van, kids.  But that wasn’t the life hunters led, and she knew it.  He shook his head slightly, as if clearing the same vision from his head.

                Sam broke the silence.  “What were you going to study in school?” he asked quietly.  She smiled. Dean rolled his eyes. 

                “God, Sammy, don’t start with the nerd talk.  It’s too early in the day for that,” he complained.  Sam laughed and began clearing the plates, stacking them to return to the kitchen. 

                Catherine laughed too, but told him anyway.  “English,” she said.  “I liked to read and write, before all this happened.  I had thought I’d get my PhD and work as a professor.  I always liked the idea of teaching classes in a big lecture hall, then going to my office to write papers for journals.  Far cry from what I ended up doing,” she mused.

                Sam tipped his head at the shelves.  “Well, we have lots here to read while you’re recovering.  There’s tons of lore, and I’ve picked up some fiction too.  The Game of Thrones books are in my room if you want to borrow them.”

  
                Dean snorted.  “Or you could just watch the show, like everyone else on the planet.”

  
                She laughed.  “Actually, I have watched it, but I wouldn’t mind reading the books.  Maybe I’ll start those, if you’re sure you don’t mind, Sam.”

                He nodded.  “I’ll get them for you before we leave today.” 

                Dean piped up.  “The DVDs are in my room, including the newest season.  So you can watch those if you want.”

                “You know,” she said, “I haven’t been laid up like this in a long time.  I’m not sure I’ll know what to do with myself.”  The boys both smiled, and she figured they knew exactly what she meant.  They probably weren’t good at being injured either.

                “Well,” Dean said, “it’s back to bed for you.  In between naps you can read or watch TV.”  He got up from the table too, ready to usher her back to his room for the day.  “I’ve got to clean out my car this morning.  Baby’s in a mess after last night.”

                She looked at him quizzically.  Sam stopped stacking dishes to explain.  “Dean’s very protective about his car.  It needs to be in perfect condition all the time.  He calls it baby.”  
                “Not it, Sammy,” Dean interrupted.  “Her.”  He was next to Catherine now, pushing her dishes over to Sam and reaching for her elbow.  “And she’s messy from last night.  Someone bled all over the backseat.”

                Sam rolled his eyes, exiting with the stack of dishes.  “Thanks for breakfast,” Catherine called after him, as Dean ushered her to her feet.  “And I’m sorry about Baby.”

                “Don’t worry.  Baby’s been through worse.  I’m just going to clean her up and get her ready for today’s run,” he said.  He steered her through the halls, back to his room.  When she was back in bed, Dean passed her the remote for the TV.  “Need anything else?” he asked.

                She shook her head.  “Did you guys find my cell phone, by any chance?  I had it with me last night, but it wasn’t in my pocket when I woke.”

  
                “Oh, right,” Dean walked across the room and opened a drawer, pulling out her phone.  “We took it when we searched you before you woke up.  I brought it in last night but forgot about it.”  He fiddled with the screen, touching and tapping before he handed it over. “I put my number in, so if you need anything and I’m not here you can call or text.  The garage is way down at the end of the hall, so I won’t hear you if you call out.  Better to text and I can come back.  Sammy’s number is in there too, in case you need it.”

                She stared in amazement.  “My phone was locked.  How did you unlock it?” 

                He seemed a little bit ashamed, but answered truthfully.  “Sam’s really good with cell phones and computers and stuff.  He can hack into most things.  He figured out your phone and told me the password.  Before you woke up last night, we went through it for clues.”  He shrugged.  “We do this a lot.”

                Catherine shook her head.  “You two…” She didn’t finish the sentence.  Dean decided to take that as a compliment, it seemed, as he grinned wolfishly and left the room.  She thought for a second, then typed a text to him.

                _You’re probably a bad influence on me_ , she typed.  She heard his phone ping as his footsteps moved down the hall, then heard his muted chuckle as her read her text.

                _Absolutely._ His response came quickly, then was followed by another message.  _Now go to sleep!_

                She laid the phone beside her and smiled.  Sleep and heal, she thought to herself.  Sleep and heal, and stay here with Dean.  Her eyes closed, but the smile stayed on her face long after she’d fallen asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

                After 48 hours in bed, Catherine needed to get up and do something, gunshot wound in her shoulder or not.  For two days, Dean and Sam kept sending her back to bed.  If she went to get food on her own, they sent her back to bed and brought it in.  If she got up to change the DVD, they sent her back to bed and changed it for her.  If she went to shower, they sat outside while she did and then sent her back to bed.  She was beginning to go just a little bit crazy.

                The boys had picked up her gear and her car two days ago.  Sam had texted her every hour to check in, and when she didn’t answer right away, Dean called, worried that she was sleeping “like the dead” and that she’d never wake up again.  He started to give her a speech about the risks of sleeping with a concussion, and had gotten well into it before she interrupted to tell him she’d been in the bathroom, not sleeping.  He paused in his rant, and then started again, this time about how she shouldn’t be out of bed alone, and they’d be back in another hour, and she should wait for one of them to be there.  She’d rolled her eyes so hard that she was surprised he couldn’t hear it over the phone.

                “Dean,” she said, her tone serious, “are you always this nervous about girls you shoot?  Because if you are, I’d suggest you stop shooting them.  You’re going to give yourself an ulcer.”  She’d been on speaker, and Sam was snickering in the background. 

                Dean cleared his throat.  “Well, you didn’t wake up this morning,” he pointed out, “until I poured water on you.”

                “Yes,” she admitted, “which is why I didn’t go to sleep when you guys left.  I figured I’d stay awake until you got back, just so you’d stop worrying about nearly killing me with a barstool.” 

                Sam laughed out loud this time, then told Dean to relax.  “She’s fine, Dean.  She’s much better than yesterday.  She’ll need a few days to get over the headaches and stuff, but she’ll survive.”  Dean grunted his agreement, then the two hung up, ready to drive back with her car and things.  She watched Dean’s Game of Thrones DVDs until they returned.

                Since then, she’d done more of the same.  She had taken a lot of naps, mostly because Sam and Dean kept telling her that she should be sleeping, and it seemed easier to go along than to argue.  It did make her head and shoulder feel better.  She’d read the first of the books Sam had loaned her, and they’d had a discussion about it, talking about the things that hadn’t transferred to the show as well as they’d hoped.  She’d watched the better part of the newest season of the show as well, and although they’d both seen it already, Sam and Dean often watched with her.  She had the feeling that she was being watched; Dean clearly felt guilty about hurting her so badly, and Sam was a gentleman who couldn’t leave an injured girl on her own.  Even when they weren’t in Dean’s room with her, they kept popping in to check on her, to see if she needed anything.  Dean turned up every hour or so with water, juice, or a piece of pie, which he usually ended up eating instead of her. 

                As for Dean’s room, she wasn’t quite sure why she was still sleeping there, with him by her side.  Dean insisted that she stay there, telling her that the other rooms in the place hadn’t been cleaned or made up, and that she still needed to be watched.  In fact, he kept waking her up in the night, every few hours, just to be sure.  He’d put her bag by the side of the bed, pushing his things off the bedside table, so that she could have easy access to her stuff.  And both nights, if she woke on her own, she found Dean’s arm flung across her waist and his face against her shoulder, with the most peaceful expression she’d ever seen on it.  She figured it matched the look on her own face, since she’d been sleeping really well too, curled up in bed next to him.  Normally, sleeping with someone else like this made her toss and turn, but with Dean, she was relaxed and comfortable all night long – except, of course, for the dull ache in her shoulder, and occasionally her head. 

                But now, two days into her forced bedrest, she was starting to go a little bit stir crazy.  She needed to get up, to move around, to do something, or else she was going to start yelling at the boys when they offered to help her or bring her things.  She wasn’t used to this much thoughtfulness, and was beginning to wonder if this is what people meant when they said you could kill someone with kindness.   So after her morning shower (with Dean sitting outside) and breakfast (with Dean as an escort and Sam as a waiter), she decided she wouldn’t be going back to bed.

                “So, boys,” she said, as Sam piled up dishes, “what are we doing today?”  They looked at her, not expecting her question. 

                Dean answered first.  “Well, we,” he said forcefully, pointing and himself and then Sam, “are going to do some research on the case we just found.  Then we’ll probably head out to hunt, if we need to.  And you,” he pointed at Catherine, emphasizing the words, “are going to stay in bed and rest.”

                She shook her head.  “Nope.”

                Dean’s eyebrow went up, and Sam stopped stacking.

                “Guys, I can’t stay in bed any longer.  I’ll go nuts.  If you were me, and you’d been shot, you would have been up and around the next day, working on the next case or fixing your car or whatever.  I’ve been lying around for two solid days doing nothing; I’ve got to do something.”

  
                “Yeah, but you weren’t just shot,” Sam interjected.  “You were possessed, and shot, and you have a concussion from blunt force trauma.”  Dean looked pained when Sam said it, but he didn’t argue this time.  “You didn’t see yourself that night, not the way we did.  Dean thought he’d killed you.  You probably need a week to recover before you can start to get back to normal, and hunting… well, that’s off the table for a while.”

                Catherine wasn’t going to accept that.  “A while?  I’m going to need you to be more specific, Sam.  What’s a while?  Why can’t I go back to work?”

  
                Sam and Dean exchanged a look, and she knew then that they’d talked about this in advance.  Sam explained.  “I research concussion recovery online yesterday.  You can have symptoms for up to a month, and if you were an athlete, they’d tell you not to play for at least a few weeks, maybe longer.”

                Dean weighed in then.  “If you get hit in the head again, or fall and hurt yourself on a hunt, you could get another concussion, which would be more serious.  You can’t risk it so soon after this one.  Hunting’s not safe.  Hunters get hit and knocked down all the time.  You’ll end up with brain damage.”

                She seethed, angry that they’d made decisions for her, and angrier still that they were probably right.  “So you two talked about this and decided I can’t go back to work, but you didn’t talk to me?”  They exchanged looks again, this time with a tinge more guilt in their eyes.  “Okay, enough is enough.  I can’t cope with this. Let’s get a few things straight.”  Sam and Dean looked at her.  “I’m not lying in bed for a week.  It’s not going to happen.  I’m not wired for that much downtime – and neither are you guys, so don’t try to tell me any differently.  I’ll take it easy.  I’ll stick to research.  I’ll even stay here and let you supervise me, if that’s what you want.  But I’m not going to lie around in bed any longer.”

                By now, Dean had a smirk on his face, but she wasn’t done.  “And on top of that, you two have to knock it off.  I know I’m hurt, but I’m not made of glass.  I didn’t break.  I won’t break.  Stop treating me like I’m an invalid.  Stop giving me speeches about resting!  Stop putting your hand on my back and steering me to a chair or a bed every time you see me.  For that matter, stop listening outside the bathroom when I shower!  I haven’t passed out in the shower yet, so it’s not going to happen.”  Dean opened his mouth as if to object, but she cut him off.  “And no, I don’t need help.  I can put my own bra on now, so we’re all good on that front.”  The look on Sam’s face told her that Dean hadn’t talked about that with Sam, and suddenly she blushed, realizing what she’d said and how it must have sounded to Sam.

                She softened, trying to change the subject so that everyone in the room could stop thinking about Dean helping her put on a bra.  “Look, I know you mean well, and I know you’re trying to help.  But it’s too much for me.  Treat me like a regular person, will you?  If I need help, I’ll ask.  But really, I’m mostly okay now.  If push came to shove, I could handle a gun or knife and defend myself.  It wouldn’t feel good after, but I could do it.  So I can certainly sit at a table with you and help with research.  And in a few days, I’ll move on.  I appreciate you having me stay, but I’m sure you’ll want to get back to your usual routine sooner or later.” Something flickered across Dean’s face then, uncertain and unhappy, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.  The boys were watching her, waiting to see if she was done.  “Just… stop being so damn polite to me.  It’s weird.”

                And then she stopped.  Sam had a tiny smile on his face, like he’d been waiting for this from her.  He seemed amused, and whether it was from the bra comment or not, she couldn’t tell.  Dean, on the other hand, was staring at her, his green eyes narrowed slightly.  “So, you want us to stop being so nice to you.” 

                “Yes,” she breathed. 

                “And you want us to treat you like one of us.”

                “Yes.”

                Dean looked at Sam, shrugged, and stood up from the table.  “Alright.”  He walked to the shelves behind him, picked up the biggest book, and dropped it onto the table in front of her.  “Angel lore.  Start reading,” he said, starting to walk from the room.  Sam followed, carrying the plates.

                “Where are you going?” she called after Dean.

                He paused, looking back at her, his eyes hard.  “To do exactly what you said, sweetheart,” he replied.  “Work on my car.  I hate researching.  You can do my share of reading, since you want to be treated like one of us.”  He walked out, leaving her in the empty room, completely alone.

               


	4. Chapter 4

                Dean was definitely mad at her.  He hadn’t spoken to her since he’d dropped the book in front of her and left that morning.  He hadn’t checked on her once, hadn’t stopped back in for food, hadn’t even walked through the room.  In the middle of the afternoon, she heard a door slam somewhere in the bunker, so she assumed he’d gone out. 

                It was nearly time for supper, and she’d spent the entire day reading lore.  Sam had come back after a while, and he’d sat with her to research.  They’d gone through several texts, discussing the different things they’d found out about angels that neither had known before, but carefully avoiding the topic of Dean.  When she’d lost her patience with them in the morning, she’d said something that had pushed Dean away, and she wasn’t sure if it was something she could fix.

                He showed up around suppertime, carrying bags of takeout.  He dropped them on top of the books, dropped himself into a chair, and kicked his feet up to rest of the edge of the table.  “So, any luck with the lore?” His question was directed toward Sam, and after he pulled his food from the bag he passed it to Sam without even looking at Catherine.

                “Lots of information, but nothing that we can use,” Sam answered.  He pulled out his burger and passed the bag to Catherine.  “We did find some different sigils, though.  Catherine made a sketch of the key ones for us to use as a reference, so we don’t have to get the books out all the time.”

                Dean nodded, not looking at her.  He was making an effort to avoid her, and it was starting to bother her.  On top of that, her shoulder was killing her.  She probably should have taken a break in the afternoon, but after the scene she’d caused that morning, she wasn’t going to go crawl into bed for a nap.  Her head ached too, just a mild throbbing behind her eyes, from the strain of looking at books all day, especially after a head injury.  She tucked her right hand into her lap, trying to make it look like her hand was just resting there.  After they ate, she’d planned on moving her stuff out of Dean’s way and into a spare room; if he wasn’t talking to her now, then he probably wouldn’t want to curl up with her later on.  When she did that, she’d pop a few painkillers and go to bed early.  Not that she’d tell them that; she’d say she wanted to read one of Sam’s novels and relax.

                Sam passed the sketch along to Dean.  He barely looked at it, then slid it to the side.  “So nothing we can use to keep them away from us?  Nothing to hide us when we’re out on a case?”

                Sam shook his head, swallowing his food.  “Not yet.”  He paused.  “Catherine’s going to go through a few more books with me tomorrow.”

                Still nothing from Dean.  No acknowledgement of any kind that she was even in the room.  She took a bite of her burger, but it felt like swallowing lead.  Sam could feel the weirdness, she was sure, and he covered it up by talking to Dean about random things – his car, an old case, some friends they hadn’t seen in a while.  Halfway through her burger, Catherine gave up and pushed it away. 

                “I’m not really hungry, so I think I’ll go sort out my stuff,” she said, without making eye contact with either of them.  “I’ll see you guys later.”  She left the room, walking quickly toward Dean’s room.  She had to escape the awkwardness that was hanging between them before she started yelling at Dean about how childish he was being.  Earlier in the day, she’d been worried that he was angry with her.  That didn’t matter anymore; now she was hurt by what he was doing, and that made her angry.

                When she got to his room, she started picking up her things and putting them in her duffle.  She couldn’t believe that Dean would act this way.  He’d been so nice to her up until now, and all she’d done was tell him how she was feeling.  She’d told him to stop being so nice, but she didn’t mean start pretending she didn’t exist.  She just wanted the overbearing attitude to go away!  She picked up her things, grabbing her clothes from the back of the chair, shoving them into her bag with her left hand.  She dropped Sam’s book on the floor, then picked it up, shoving it in the bag on top of the shirts.  Her toothbrush and hairbrush were in the bathroom, so she shoved the door open to get them.  In her anger, she shoved too hard, making the door hit the wall and bounce back.  It slammed directly into her injured shoulder.  And it hurt.  It really, really hurt.

                She cried out, a short sharp cry, before she could stifle the sound, and she grabbed her shoulder.  The burst of pain was so sudden and unexpected that it made her eyes water, and she doubled over, gasping against the feeling the radiated down her arm.  Suddenly she was very glad that she hadn’t eaten much of her burger, because the pain made her instantly nauseated. 

                Before she could recover, a hand was on her lower back, and Dean’s voice was there.  “What happened?  Are you okay?”  He was bending over, looking in her face, trying to see if she was bleeding or broken.

                “Fine,” she gasped.  “Hit my shoulder.”  She moved to straighten up, and as she did, he seemed to be reaching for her, as if he was going to lift and carry her.  She cupped her right elbow in her left hand, holding the weight of her arm to ease the pain in her shoulder.  “Jesus Christ, that hurt.” His eyes were on her, scanning her face, her shoulder, then back to her face, full of concern.  She walked past him, to the bed, where she sat for a moment, catching her breath.  He watched her, not speaking.  When the worst of it had passed, she reached for the bottle of painkillers on the nightstand.  It was practically impossible to open with just one hand and every time she moved her right arm the pain was worse, so after a minute of fumbling she looked up at Dean, helpless.  “Could you open these for me?”  She needed to take a couple of them, and sooner was better than later.

                Dean moved stiffly, reaching for the bottle, opening the cap with ease, pouring two into her hand.  He walked back to the bathroom, and she heard the water running, then he reappeared with a glass of water.  He passed it to her silently, waited for her to swallow the pills, and then took the glass as she leaned back against the pillows on the bed.  He watched her, face impassive.  Her eyes were closed, her face pinched from the ache she felt. 

                Catherine felt the weight of his silence, heavier than the pain in her shoulder, and much more awkward.  “Sorry,” she said quietly.  “Once the drugs start to work, I’ll finish with my stuff and go to another room.”  She didn’t make eye contact.

                He was silent for a long moment.  When he did speak, she could hear the anger in his voice, barely controlled, just below the surface.  “Fine.  If that’s what you want.”

                She looked at him then, unsure how to deal with him now.  “Isn’t that what you want?  You haven’t talked to me all day.  You’re avoiding me.  You must not want me in your way anymore.”

                He walked to the bed and crossed his arms, staring down at her.  He was tall, and when she was leaning back like this he felt even taller.  His eyes were green fire, all anger and cold heat.  “You told me to stop being nice.  You told me to stop helping.  Hell, Catherine, you even told me to stop touching you.  What else was I supposed to do?  You obviously don’t want me close to you.”  His jaw was set.

                “I didn’t mean stop talking to me altogether,” she argued.

                “You wanted me to back off,” he said, “so I backed off.”  His tone was final.

                “Dean,” she said gently, trying to soften him, “that’s not exactly what I meant.”

                He yelled at her, still angry.  “You think you’re fine?  You think you can go back to work, handle a gun?  You just got your ass kicked by a door! And then you tell me to leave you alone?  Goddammit, Catherine, you think you’re ready to leave and go off on your own, but five minutes ago you couldn’t open a pill bottle by yourself!”

                “Oh come on,” she tried to defend herself, but Dean wasn’t done.

                “What’s going to happen two days from now when some vampire catches your scent and you haven’t got enough strength to fight him off?  Half the demons on the planet probably want to kill you, and you want to take off out of here with one working arm?  And don’t tell me you’re fine – I saw you holding your arm at supper, and rubbing your eyes.  Your head is still hurting, and you can barely lift your arm!”  Dean was really yelling now.

                By this point, Catherine had heard enough.  She stood up, forcing him a half step back.  “Dean.”  He tried to keep shouting, but she put one hand on his chest, and started again.  “Dean!  Enough.  Enough.  I know I’m not okay to go hunting yet.  I didn’t say I was going hunting yet.  All I said was that you have to stop hovering over me like I’m completely useless.”  She was getting worked up now, despite her headache and her shoulder.  “All I said was that you had to stop treating me like I was going to die if I moved too much!  And when I said I’d move on, I didn’t mean right freaking now!  But I was trying to be considerate, and I figured you probably didn’t want me to sleep in your bed forever!”

                “No one said anything about forever,” he shot back.  “You want to go?  Go.  But don’t pretend you’re in any kind of shape to be alone.” He grabbed her bag and held it out to her.

                She reached to take it with her left hand and dropped it on the floor.  “So you avoid me all day, completely refuse to talk to me, and then get angry with me for trying to get out of your way?  What the hell do you want, Dean?  Because I can’t figure it out!” She pushed at his chest with her good arm, trying to move him.  He was like a stone, totally unmoving.  He was staring down at her, eyes blazing, cheeks flushed from the argument. 

                He didn’t answer.  He stood there, just staring.  She was trapped, and the heat rose in her cheeks, and suddenly she didn’t know if it was from the argument or from the way he was looking at her.  Something had shifted between them in the last exchange, and she didn’t know what it was.  She said again, lower, “What do you want, Dean?” The urgency was still there, but the tone of her words had changed completely.

                He stared a moment longer, then moved, suddenly, fiercely, his hand gripping the back of her neck and pulling her face to his, roughly.  His lips crushed hers, all the anger of their fight pouring into the kiss, both of them emptying their feelings into the moment.  He pulled back.  “You,” he told her, voice tinged with the anger of the fight and the desire of the kiss, “I want you.” 

                He kissed her again, longer and slower, bending into her space.  Her hand was still on his chest, feeling his heart beat through his shirt.  His mouth was hot, needy, and his hands moved down to her upper arms to pull her closer.  His fingers were too strong, too tight, and too close to her aching shoulder, and she moaned into his mouth, pain pulsing through her.  He released her immediately, realizing what he’d done.

                Dean stepped back from her, crossing the room and rubbing his hand across his face.  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

   
                She held her elbow again, waiting for the pain to settle.  “Dean.” He turned away from her.  “Why are you apologizing?  If it’s for being an asshat all day, then I accept your apology.” His head tilted back toward her.  “If it’s for kissing me, I’m not taking apologies for that.  That was actually the high point of my week.”

                He shook his head, just a little.  “No,” he said.  “You’re hurt and I’m the one who hurt you.  I shouldn’t be grabbing at you in my bedroom.”

                She rolled her eyes, realizing the root cause of all the weirdness.  “Are you still feeling guilty for shooting me?  Because let me tell you that if I’d been in your shoes, I would have shot you without hesitation.  And to be perfectly honest, I might have taken a more lethal approach, especially if you’d been beating the daylights out of someone I cared about.  I saw the damage I did to Sam’s face, remember?  I’m assuming there was more of that bruising in other places too, so you did the right thing.” He still didn’t look convinced.  “I’ll be fine in a few days.  Stop feeling guilty!”

                He didn’t answer.  She sighed and walked over to stand in front of him.  If he wouldn’t come to her, she’d go to him.  “Seriously, Dean, you have to stop.  I get the feeling that you carry an awful lot of guilt around for things that you can’t control.” He looked at her then, made eye contact, and she smirked.  “You definitely can’t control me.  Don’t feel guilty because you took me out when I was possessed.”  He was almost ready to move on, she thought.  So she stepped closer, running her hand up his chest, and then down, around his waist, pulling him a little closer.  She stood on her toes, turning her face up to his, and he met her there, gently pressing his lips against hers.  She opened her eyes and smiled directly at him, then slid her hand to the gun in the back of his waistband, lightly, just letting him know her hand was there.  “Besides,” she teased, “If you really feel bad about it, I suppose I could steal your gun and shoot you so we’d be even…”

                He smiled then, a real smile, and she thought to herself that when he was happy, his eyes were the color of a glass bottle in the sun, clear and sparkling.  “You’re not possessed now,” he reminded her.  “No vengeful spirit to help you out.  You wouldn’t get my gun away from me that easily.”

                “Oh, I’ve got moves, Dean,” she replied.  “If you’re lucky, you’ll get to see them one of these days.”  His eyebrows raised, and the look in his eyes told her that the moves he was imagining had nothing to do with fighting.

                “So are you still moving to another room tonight?” he asked.

                “No,” she replied.  “If you’re still okay with sharing, I’d like to stay.  I sleep really well with you,” she admitted.

                “Me too,” he answered.  “Before you came I slept, but not well.  Since you got here, I’ve slept like the dead.”  He brushed her hair back from her face, touching her cheek gently.  “Except when I wake up to check that you’re not in a coma.”

                “Yes, well, I think I’m probably out of the woods there,” she responded.  “You really can relax about that.”

                Sam walked through the open door then.  “You two done yelling at each other?”  He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. 

                Catherine laughed and let go of Dean, turning toward Sam.  “For now.”

                “And Dean finally made a move?  He waited three whole days, which has got to be a record for him.  He usually hits on girls he meets at bars much faster than this,” Sam was laughing now, making fun of Dean.

                “Hey.  When we met her, you were the one getting hit on, little brother.  And not in the good way, either,” Dean was quick to return the harassment.

                Sam raised his hands in a gesture of innocence.  “Whatever, Dean.  I’m just glad you’re both done acting weird.”  He started to leave the room, then paused.  “Game of Thrones in a bit?”

                Catherine and Dean both agreed.  When Sam was gone, she moved to the bed and sat, while Dean picked up her bag and put it back on the bedside table.  “You know,” Catherine said, “I don’t usually get involved with hunters.”  Dean looked at her, quickly, and she hurried to explain.  “Most hunters are too self-involved to date.  They care about other people, but only in terms of saving their lives.  I’ve never met a hunter who could get past that.”

                Dean thought a moment.  “It’s the lifestyle,” he said.  “The moving, the killing.”

                “So we all just have one night stands and go on to the next job,” her voice was empty, thinking of her own past.  Dean must have the same story, she thought.

                “But this,” he stepped in front of her, putting his hand beneath her chin and tipping her head up, “feels different.  It feels more real, somehow.”

                “It’s because you shot me,” she deadpanned.

                He laughed.  “Obviously.” He paused.  “When you woke up in the dungeon and started making jokes, even with a bullet in your shoulder and two strangers threatening to kill you, I knew you would be something different for me.” She shivered, remembering the feel of his fingers on her skin as he checked for her tattoo. 

                “You guys are intense when you’re in interrogation mode,” she admitted.  “I’m glad you decided not to kill me.”

                “Me too,” he said, and sat down beside her on the bed.

                “So what do we do now?” she asked him.  “I don’t know where we go from here.  Do we date?”  She stopped to think about it.  “It seems weird to call it dating when we’re sleeping in the same bed.”

                He put his arm around her waist.  She’d thought all the touching was a bit much earlier, but now that she knew what it meant, she was enjoying it.  His hands were big and strong, and he was warm all the time.  Dean was solid muscle, and it was nice to lean her body against his.  “I don’t know,” he replied.  “You stay here for now, let yourself heal.  You can run back end for us on cases, work the phones and the lore, and when you’re ready to hunt again, we’ll figure it out.” 

                She leaned her head against his shoulder, remembering how she’d leaned against him the night they’d met.  The wound in her shoulder had made her so weak, and she’d needed his help just to sit up.  “You know, when I got mad at you this morning it wasn’t really about you helping me.  It was about me needing help.  I don’t like to feel weak.  I don’t like having to depend on someone else.  I’m used to relying on myself and whatever weapons are in my possession at the time.  Letting you help me so much felt strange.” 

                Dean’s answer took a minute.  “Listen, sweetheart, we’re all like that.  Asking Sammy to help me when I’m hurt is nearly impossible, but I don’t have to ask.  He’s just there for me.  I was trying to do that for you, to be there without you having to ask.” He paused, waiting for her to turn her head to face him.  “You need to think about it like this.  Right now, you have me.  I’m the weapon in your possession.  You can rely on me as long as you need.”

                She lifted her face to his again, and they kissed, a long, sweet kiss that held more words than everything they’d said that day.  When the broke apart, she smiled, “I guess I can get used to that,” she whispered.  “Thanks, Dean.”

                He kissed her again, deeper this time, more forceful and raw.  “No problem, Catherine,” he answered.  “We’ll get used to it together.”      

               


	5. Chapter 5

                After another week of light duties, which consisted of nothing more strenuous than research, Catherine’s shoulder started to feel normal.  She could lift her arm without too much pain, and the wound had healed, so Dean agreed to remove the stitches and let her get back to doing a few more things.  He’d stopped hovering (for the most part), but he still wouldn’t let her lift anything for herself, and if she stood too long or moved too much, she could see the worry on his face.   

                “Alright, princess,” he said as he sat down with the scissors, “let’s see that shoulder.”

                She pulled off her top, leaving her in just a tank top.  She pushed the strap off her shoulder, along with her bra strap, so that he could see the red mark.  “It’s a lot better looking,” she commented.  “And that tight feeling is gone.”  He looked at her quizzically.  “It used to feel like my skin would rip apart if I moved.”

                Dean moved in with the scissors, slipping the needle-nosed tip beneath the stitches, moving carefully to avoid cutting her.  He cut each stitch neatly, lifting the ends up.  When he’d cut them all, he put the scissors aside and reached for a pair of tweezers.  She eyed them warily.  

                He raised one eyebrow at her expression.  “Oh come on.”  He was mildly exasperated.  “Taking them out is a problem?” 

                She shrugged, a small movement.  “It’s not as bad as putting them in,” she explained.  “But I can still feel the tugging, and the thread sliding out.  It just grosses me out.”  She shuddered a little just thinking about it.  “I mean, obviously I’ll be fine.”

  
                “You nearly passed out when I put them in.”  He was blunt.

                “Yeah, but in my defense, I had a concussion and I’d lost a lot of blood.”

                Dean snorted.  “Sure.”

                She rolled her eyes.  “Give me a break here, Dean.  I’m not going to faint or anything.  I just don’t like it!  I’m sure there are things that gross you out.”

                He shook his head.  “Nope.”  He considered.  “Wait.  Witches.  Witches are disgusting.  All that spitting – ugh.”

                She laughed.  “Okay, that’s a fair point.  I’m with you on that one.”  He smiled, green eyes focused on her, and she felt better about the stitches being pulled.  “Alright, let’s get this done.”

                Dean turned his attention to her shoulder, lining up to get the first stitch.  He paused just before he grabbed it, looking at her.  “Don’t look.  Think happy thoughts.”  Then he started to pull.

                She closed her eyes for a moment, but then decided that her happy thoughts would come from studying him.  She watched his face, diligently avoiding looking at what his hands were doing.  He was so handsome; today there was just a tiny bit of scruff on his face, since he hadn’t shaved, and his lips looked soft and delicate.  When he concentrated really hard, like now, he sometimes poked just the tip of his tongue out of his mouth, for just a second, like he was wetting his lips for a kiss.  She watched him, concentrated on him, and barely felt the stitches pull free.

                “Done,” he announced, and leaned in to kiss her shoulder.  His lips were as soft as they looked, and it sent a jolt of electricity through her body.  He got up to put the first aid gear away, and she slid her strap back up her arm, putting herself back together.  She reached for her shirt, but before she could get it, Dean was there.  He grabbed her arm as she reached out, catching her wrist in his hand.  He sat next to her on the bed, still holding her wrist. He brought it to his mouth, kissing it gently, and she felt fire course through her veins.  The past week had been a series of cuddles and sweet kisses, since she’d been healing and not feeling up to par.  They’d gotten to know each other, lying in bed at night, carefully spooning each other, not yet ready to take it any further. But the tension had been building, and the kisses had felt needier, as the week went on.  Now, with his hands on her bare arm, she felt like she would explode if something didn’t happen.

                He ran his hand up her arm, lightly, just brushing his skin against hers, and he leaned in to kiss her neck.  She sighed, pleasure coming easily, and leaned into his mouth, his body.  He pulled her closer, spun her body so that she sat astride him, his mouth never leaving her neck.  He kissed along her jawline, her head rolling back, and then along the other side of her neck.  He buried his face in her skin, and she melted into him, clutching at his back, his hair, his arms.  “Catherine,” he whispered, and she felt his roughened voice on her skin.  “I don’t want to rush you.”  His words were a question, and she could hear his need to be given permission.

                She pulled back, taking his face in her hands.  She kissed his lips gently, softly, and then spoke.  “You’re not rushing me.”  She kissed him again, and then leaned in to whisper in his ear.  “But if you don’t take me to bed right now, I may never forgive you.”  She nipped his ear between her teeth, tugging a little, and leaned back to wink at him.

                He smiled broadly, and stood up immediately, still holding her.  Her legs wrapped around his waist, pressing her body closely against his.  He knelt on the bed, laying her down gently in the centre of it, and propped his weight on one elbow.  “Yes ma’am,” he answered, and he kissed her again.  It was more intense now, tongues and lips and pressure increasing, as his hand slid beneath her tank top.  His fingers roamed over her skin, and as she lost herself in his mouth, she marvelled at how big and strong his hands were.  He stopped kissing her to pull off her tank top, and when he leaned back to kiss her, she stopped him. 

                “Hey.” Her hand pressed against his chest.  “You too.”  He grinned and pulled off his own shirt, and she felt his warm, smooth skin against hers.  She loved this, immediately and completely, the feel of his naked body against hers.  He was solid and strong and so alive, and she wanted to stay like this forever. 

                Dean, however, had other ideas.  He began to kiss her again, making his way down her body.  Through her bra he kissed and nuzzled her breasts, tickling her with his scruff.  He slid a hand behind her back to unclasp her bra.  “I’ve been thinking about doing this ever since you asked me to do it up for you.”  She giggled.  “This is much more fun.”  He pulled it off, and moved to kiss her breasts.

                “Oh, I definitely agree,” she said, and gasped as his mouth closed over her right nipple.  His tongue was magic, just the perfect amount of pressure as he drew circles around her nipple, then a light nip with his teeth.  She shivered, feeling her body respond to him.  He moved to the other side, repeated his tongue-and-teeth magic, and she felt like her body was turning to jelly.  _I’ve never believed women who said they could orgasm from just breast play_ , she thought, _but now I get it._

                Dean looked up from her breasts, smiling at her expression, and continued his work.  At the same time, his hands travelled down, finding the waistband of her jeans and unsnapping the button.  His mouth began to travel again, kissing and licking a path down her belly, and he slid lower, unzipping her jeans.  As he kissed right below her navel, he gripped her jeans and panties, and in one move, slid them down her hips and off her legs, leaving her naked on the bed.  He traced gentle lines up her legs with his hands, moving back up to kiss her mouth.  “You’re so beautiful,” he said softly.  She blushed, her body responding to his every move. 

                His hands slid over her legs and hips, rubbing gentle circles and paths, as he kissed her lower belly, her thighs, her hip bones.  She moaned, knowing she was ready for him, wanting him to move faster but loving the pace all the same.  He slipped a hand between her legs, spreading her apart, finding her wet and wanting.  He stroked her, watching her body arch when he found her sweet spots, seeing her eyes close when it was all too much.  He slipped a finger inside, and his mouth moved to her clit, tonguing gently at first, short strokes that made her breath choppy and fast.  Her hands grabbed the bedding as he broadened his pattern, taking long, languorous drags across her clit, adding a second finger to the first.  “Dean,” she breathed his name, unable to find words for what he was doing to her.  He smiled against her, and she felt his lips curve.  He twitched his fingers upwards then, stroking her in the perfect place, and she came, hard and fast.  She made little sounds of pleasure as he moved through her orgasm, and her hands were in fists in the sheets as if she needed to hold onto something to stay grounded.

                He moved back up her body, placing little kisses here and there, tweaking her sensitive nipple slightly, before kissing her lips gently.  “You, Dean Winchester,” she sighed, “are a gifted man.”               

                He smirked.  “And I haven’t even taken my pants off yet.” 

                She raised an eyebrow at him, mirroring the look he gave her earlier.  “Well now, let’s see what we can do about that.”  She pushed at him, wanting him to lay flat, and he obliged.  She reached down to stroke him through his jeans and he groaned.  He was rock hard, and as she undid his belt buckle she intentionally brushed her hands over him again and again, teasing him as much as she could.  She undid his pants slowly, pressing against him as she unzipped.  She palmed him again, this time through just his boxer briefs, giving a squeeze and a stroke as she worked.  Then she grabbed his waistband and pulled his pants off, freeing his erection. 

                Like the rest of him, Dean’s cock was solid and strong.  It pulsed with need, and she wrapped her hand around it, giving him a slow, smooth stroke.  Dean’s eyes closed, and she could see his body react.  His nipples were hard, and as she stroked him, she kissed across his chest, stopping to lick and bite at his nipples.  She kept stroking, those long smooth strokes, as she kissed down his body, and finally, she moved to take him in her mouth.  His cock twitched as she closed her mouth over the head, her tongue licking a slow stroke along the tip, her lips tight around him.  Dean moaned again, and she slid downwards on him, tongue flicking until she was too deep, and then she slid a little further still.  She repeated the process – head, tongue, slide, throat – several times, and then, when she had him as deep as possible, she hummed lightly.  Dean’s moan became a cry of pleasure, and she felt his whole body jerk.  “Catherine.”  She looked up, her mouth still around him.  “Ahhh, God, Catherine,” his muscles were tense. “If you want me to have sex with you, you’ve got to stop.”  She could see the effort it was taking for him to not thrust against her, to not buck his hips and work her mouth and come that way. 

                She released him, moving back up toward him.  He was practically panting, and she ran her hand over his chest, resting her palm against his tattoo.  “When I saw this,” she said, “I knew I could trust you.”  She kissed it and smiled at him. 

                He returned her smile.  “When I saw yours,” he said, putting his hand on her hip so that his thumb brushed over her tattoo, “I knew I wanted to do all of this with you.” 

                “God, when you touched me that night, even though my head was pounding and my shoulder was screamingly painful, it felt like a live wire on my skin,” she told him. 

                He kissed her, long and deep, before rolling away to the edge of the bed.  He reached into the nightstand to grab a condom and handed it to her.  She unrolled it along his length and then moved to lie on her back.  Dean moved above her, pausing to kiss her scarred shoulder again, then positioned himself.  His tip slid across her clit, already sensitive, and he smiled as she arched against him.  He pushed into her, slowly, dragging out the feeling for her, letting her feel every inch.  When he was buried in her completely, he lowered his weight onto her body.  She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him tight, hugging into him, and the feeling of intimacy was so heavy that she felt wrapped in it, in him.  He pushed his face into her hair, her neck, and he began to move against her.  She could feel his breath in her ear and on her neck, hot and wanting.  She licked his neck, nipped at his skin, and he lifted his head to make eye contact with her, just for a moment, before their mouths crashed together in a frenzy of kissing.  Neither of them would last long, and they knew it – Dean’s speed was building, and Catherine’s breath was coming in short gasps.  The base of his cock ground against her clit on each stroke, and she lifted her legs, wrapping them around him to pull him closer, to make it ever better.  He moaned again, her name this time, and she felt herself on the edge.  He thrust into her, harder and deeper and more hurried in his need, and she tightened, all of her muscles straining as she felt her orgasm wash over her.  She cried out, a sharp sound of pleasure, and Dean felt her around him.  He came too, in a flood of moaning and shuddering.

                They lay like that, him on top of her, both completely spent, for several minutes.  When Dean finally rolled off to remove the condom and get rid of it, Catherine sighed in contentment.  “Well,” she said.

                “Well,” Dean echoed, lying back down and pulling her against him.  She tucked herself in under his arm and he kissed the top of her head.  “That was awesome.”

                She smiled.  “Agreed.”

                “What should we do for the rest of the day?” Dean asked.

                “I suggest we stay here, just like this, until something more pressing comes up.”

                He propped himself up on one elbow, kissing her quickly, and then looking at her.  “Sounds good to me.  Think Sammy would bring us a couple of bacon cheeseburgers later?”

                “Not unless we put on clothes,” she laughed. 

                “Not an option,” Dean said.  “I like you just the way you are now.”  He ran his hand across her skin again, then leaned in to kiss her clavicle.  “It’s easier to kiss you when you’re naked.”  His hand moved to her breast.  “Easier to touch you, too.”  He leaned down to run his nose across her skin, starting at her neck and moving toward her shoulder.  “Easier to smell you…” He paused and leaned in again, taking a longer sniff.  “Are you… still wearing my deodorant?” 

                She giggled.  “I like it.  It smells like you.”

                He rolled his eyes, exasperated, then laughed.  “Don’t expect me to start wearing your perfume.”

                She was about to reply when there was a knock on the door.   “Dean?” Sam called out.  “We caught a case.”

                “Not now, Sam!”  Dean flopped onto his back, irritated.  “I’m busy!”

                “No, you’re not,” Sam answered, obviously annoyed.  “You know how I know this?  You two are ridiculously loud. You finished being busy ten minutes ago.  So put on your pants and get out here – both of you.”

                “Bitch,” Dean grumbled.

                Sam answered from outside the door.  “Jerk!”  His footsteps went down the hall.

                Catherine was laughing silently as she rolled off the bed, finding her clothes on the floor.  “Sam’s definitely mad at us,” she laughed.  “Whoops.”

                Dean grumbled as he got dressed.  “Not like I’ve never heard him with a girl.  One time I had to sleep in Baby so he could get laid.”

                “Come on Dean,” Catherine was at the door, ready to go.  “Let’s go apologize to Sam and see what the case is.”

                At the door, he stopped her, tugging her back for a kiss.  “Hey,” he said.  “When we’re done, we’re going to do this again.”

                “Oh, definitely,” she said.  She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him, reaching with one hand to hold the back of his neck while she did.  “There’s a lot more awesome where that came from,” she said suggestively, and then she walked away.

                Dean looked at her, grateful that he hadn’t killed her that night in the bar, grateful that he’d been able to bring her here, grateful that he’d been able to be with her.  He hoped she’d stick around for a while, maybe work with them and hunt with them, and that being with her, a hunter, would be different, would be okay.  He followed her down the hall, and spoke quietly to himself as he did.

                “Definitely awesome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how I feel about the explicit sex in here; I debated writing it as a classier, less raunchy sex scene, but opted for the whole thing to go this way. I'm not sure if it changes the whole feel of the piece? Anyway, it is what it is, unless I opt to re-write.


	6. Chapter 6

                In the library, Sam was waiting at the table.  He had a beer in his hand, two more on the table, and his laptop was open.  Catherine made it to the room before Dean, and she sat down, not making eye contact with Sam.  He slid a beer toward her.  She took it, looking up to say thanks and to apologize for being so loud, and saw that Sam was smirking at her.  She blushed, and decided that there would be no apology, and that the next time she had sex with Dean, she’d make a point of screaming just to aggravate Sam. 

                Dean strolled in, fixing his shirt collar.  He grabbed the third beer and sat at the table, slouching back in the chair.  “What’s so important that it couldn’t wait?” His voice was demanding.

                Sam glowered at him before turning his laptop to show Dean the website he’d found.  She leaned in too, skimming quickly.  In a town just a few hours away, there had been a rash of strange deaths, 6 in total. There were no wounds of any sort on the victims.  It seemed that they’d simply dropped dead.  Autopsies had revealed nothing.

                “They must have had something in common,” Dean reasoned.  “Workplace?  Friends?”  He raised an eyebrow.  “Enemies?”

                Sam shook his head.  “Nothing.  The investigating officers found no connection of any kind between victims.”

                Catherine raised her eyebrows, sipping her beer.  This did sound odd, and that meant it was exactly the sort of case she liked.  “We should go,” she said. 

                Both Winchesters turned toward her, surprised by her statement.  Sam started to speak, but Dean cut him off immediately.  “No.”

                “Excuse me?” she replied. 

                “You’re not going anywhere,” Dean’s voice was firm.  “I just took your stitches out.”

                Catherine rolled her eyes, stood up, and slowly rotated her arm in a circle, showing Dean that she could move it all the way.  “My shoulder is fine,” she replied, ice in her words.

                “Concussion.”  Dean’s response was one word.  He looked angry.

                “Dean!  You’ve got to be kidding me!” He crossed his arms.  He was not kidding.  “Listen, buddy, you don’t get to make decisions for me.”  Catherine started to launch into a speech, but Sam stood up quickly, between them both, and interrupted. 

                “Okay, okay,” he said.  “Relax, will you?” He turned to Dean.  “Dean, shut up already.”  He turned back to Catherine.  “If you come with us, you stay in the motel.  No actual hunting.” She started to protest, but Sam raised a hand.  “You can do the research, but we had this discussion last week.  A concussion means you need to be safe from danger for a few weeks.”

                “She shouldn’t even be coming with us,” Dean grumbled.  “She can’t defend herself if anything attacks her at the motel room.  Not with her arm like that.”

                “Seriously?!?” Catherine yelled at Dean this time, and he glared at her.  She stomped to his room, rummaged through her bag, and grabbed her favorite handgun.  Back in the library, she checked the weapon, interrupting Sam and Dean’s conversation to let them see that she knew how to handle a gun, and in fact, could handle it without any trouble from her arm.  “Where can we go so that I can put an end to this stupid conversation?”

                Dean looked even angrier when Sam pointed out the way to the range.  She followed him, Dean behind, as he took her there.  He flicked on the lights and she took position behind the firing point. 

                “Head shot?  Chest? What do you want?”  she asked, gripping the weapon in her right hand.

                Dean didn’t answer, so Sam said “Both.” She raised her arm, levelled it, and fired – two in the head, two in the chest.  Her arm shook, just slightly, and her grouping was off, but all four were kill shots.  She turned to Dean and raised her eyebrow.

                “Your arm was shaking,” he said quietly.  “You wouldn’t be able to keep your weapon up for long.”

                She rolled her eyes again, transferred her weapon to her left hand, and fired repeatedly, until the clip was empty.  Each one was a clean kill shot, and the grouping was more solid in her left hand.  She turned to Dean.  “I can shoot with either hand.  I’ll make do.”  She then reached into her back pocket, pulled out the knife that was tucked there, turned toward the target, and threw it.  The knife sheared cleanly through the paper target.  “I can defend myself.”  Her shoulder ached a little with the throw, but she wouldn’t dare admit that to the boys.

                Sam shrugged.  “I think she’s good, Dean.” 

                Dean walked from the room, still angry.  Catherine sighed, knowing she’d have to deal with that before they left to go anywhere.  “Sam,” she said.  “How long is he going to stay angry?”

                “It’s hard to tell with Dean,” he answered.  “Honestly, he could get over it in five minutes, or it could be a lot longer.” He paused.  “But if you get hurt on this hunt, you will be hearing about it forever.”  They walked down the hall.  Before they entered the library, Sam stopped her.  “You don’t need to go, you know.  You can stay here, relax some more, and do research for us.”

                “I’ve been in the bunker for ten days.  I haven’t stayed in one place like this in years.  I’m going to go crazy if I don’t get out and go back to work,” she replied.  “I’ll stay in the motel.  I’ll do the research.  I won’t go out and get shot or attacked in any way.  I promise.”

                Sam grinned at her.  “I am holding you to that.”

                Dean wasn’t in the main room, so she went back to his bedroom, thinking he’d be there, getting his bags packed.  His back was to the door when she entered, and he was shoving things in his duffel. 

                “Dean.”  Her voice was soft.  “Don’t be mad, Dean.”  She walked up behind him and slid her arms around his waist.  He pushed her arms away and went to the drawers, pulling out a few shirts.  “Come on, Dean.” Even softer now, cajoling.  “I don’t want to stay here alone while you’re off hunting,” she told him.  She sat on the bed, right next to his bag.  “I need to get out, to go to work – and I want to go with you.” 

                He came back to the bag, shoving his shirts in.  She grabbed his wrist, holding it, not letting him run away from her this time.  He froze, not looking at her.  She tugged on him, pulling him toward her, and she ran one hand up his chest.  “Hey,” she said softly.  “Look at me, please.”  He did, and his green eyes were stormy.  “I’ll just stay in the motel and do the research, like you asked.”

                That didn’t make him relax.  “Sure,” he said.  “Until a demon shows up and grabs you to get at us, or until you don’t hear back from us on time, and you come looking.”  She smiled.  “You’re a hunter.  You won’t be able to stay out of things.”

                “No demons are coming for me, Dean,” she said.  “No one knows we’re together yet.  We’ll be safe.  And I promise that I won’t come looking for you.” He didn’t say anything.  “I’ll stay in the motel and wait.  If you don’t show up on time and don’t contact me, I’ll call in another hunter to find you, and I’ll still stay in the motel.  I’ll call Garth.  You said you know Garth, right?  He’ll come to help.”

  
                “Garth can barely find himself,” Dean grumbled. 

                She smiled again.  Dean was coming around.  “I’m sure Garth could find you.  I’ll tell him where to look.”  She paused.  “That is, if you get lost or snatched up or whatever, which won’t happen.  You and Sam will take care of each other, like you always did, and I’ll hang out at the motel.”

                He wrapped his arms around her neck, hugging her to his body.  “I don’t like it.”

  
                She hugged back, her arms around his waist, and her face against his abs.  “Yeah, I know, but you’ll like coming back to the motel room to find me there.”  She moved her hand to squeeze his ass.  “Maybe I’ll wait for you naked?”

                She leaned back to see his face.  Dean grinned at her now.  “I don’t think Sammy would be okay with that.”

                She tilted her head.  “I don’t know.  I’m pretty hot. Sam might like to have a look.”

                Dean shook his head.  “No way,” he said.  “I don’t share.  He can find his own girl.”  He let her go and zipped his bag.  “We’ll be ready to leave in a few minutes.  Is that enough time for you?”

                She nodded.  Hunters were always ready to go.  It was a basic rule that you needed to be able to get on the road as fast as possible.  If you waited, people died.  She moved around the room, picking up a few of her things, throwing them in her bag.  She took more than usual, since she knew she’d be doing a lot of waiting around.  Her laptop went in the bag, and a few books – she was still reading books she’d borrowed from Sam.  She might pick up a few more while she was out.  She was looking forward to some sunshine and fresh air after ten days indoors.  She packed the last of her clothes, grabbed her hairbrush and makeup bag, and made sure to get her toothbrush from the bathroom.  Before she left the room, she popped open Dean’s drawers and found some condoms.  They were all sharing one room, she figured, but Sam would probably go out sometime, and it didn’t hurt to be prepared.

                Catherine met Dean and Sam in the library.  They were ready, both with bags packed, and once she arrived they all moved towards the door.  Dean was jingling the keys in his hand, anxious to get started.   “I take it you want to drive?” she asked, teasing him a little as they went through the door.

                Dean didn’t answer, just waited for her to step outside.  There, she saw his car – a gleaming black beast of a car, definitely from the 1960s, but in impeccable condition.  “Baby prefers it when I drive.” She could see his pride, and she could also see, in the corner of her eye, Sam’s eye roll.

                “She is a beautiful car, Dean,” Catherine admitted. 

                “I know.”   It was Catherine’s turn to roll her eyes.  She opened the door to the backseat, climbed in, and settled in for the drive.  Dean and Sam sat up front, and before they pulled out, Dean opened a box and rattled it.  She looked, surprised to see him going through tapes. 

                “Tapes?” she asked.

                “Baby’s a classic,” Dean replied, and she could tell from the way he said it that he’d had this conversation more than once.  “You don’t mess with a classic.”

                Sam turned to her.  “No iPod goes in the car.  Don’t even ask.”

                Dean picked a tape, popping it in the tape deck.  Catherine watched, feeling like she’d been transported back about 15 years.  “Def Leppard?” she asked, and the hint of disdain must have been obvious in her voice. 

                “House rules, Catherine,” he said.  “Sammy?”

                Sam turned to her.  In a flat voice he explained.  “Driver picks the music.  Shotgun – and backseat passengers – shut their cakeholes.” 

                She laughed at Sam’s explanation, amused by the familiarity of the brothers, glad to be part of their routine.  “Fair enough,” she responded, and settled back into the leather seats for the drive, letting the sounds of the 80s and the quiet conversation of the two brothers wash over her.


	7. Chapter 7

               

                Catherine enjoyed the drive.  Dean’s music was all classic rock, which, other than Def Leppard, she enjoyed.  Dean and Sam talked most of the way there, and she got to learn a bit more about them.  It seemed like being in the car was more natural to them than being in the bunker, and they were more relaxed.  They joked and laughed, and even reminisced a little.  She sat in the back, quiet for most of the trip, just taking it all in.

                At the motel, Sam checked them in.  She waited with Dean in the car, quietly singing along to the music.  Dean turned to watch her. 

                “Hey,” he said.  “You okay?”

                She nodded while she sang. 

                “We’ll get settled in before we head off.  We can do a run for snacks and things first,” he told her.

                She stopped singing then.  “Definitely.  We need Diet Coke.”

                “Really?”  Dean seemed surprised.

                “A girl cannot live on beer alone,” she replied.  “And I haven’t had one since I’ve been with you guys.  I’m surprised I haven’t suffered withdrawal.”

                Dean laughed.  “Diet Coke it is.  And pie for me.  Sam will want a friggin’ salad or something,” he laughed, “but we’ll buy him something sugary and let him complain.”  She laughed with him. 

                When Sam got back in the car, telling them the room number, they drove to their door and parked.  Catherine grabbed her bag and went to the door, unlocking it, while the guys picked up their gear from the trunk.  The room was decent – bigger than most places she’d rented, fairly clean, and most things looked like they were reasonably new.  Two beds, both queen size, were in the room.

                She walked in and laid her bag down.  Sam came in behind her, dropped his bag, and sprawled out on one bed.  His legs hung well over the end of the bed.  “Uh, Sam?”

                “Yeah?”

                “How do you sleep?  Isn’t it weird to have your legs dangling like that all night?”  She couldn’t help asking him.

                Sam laughed.  “I’m used to it.  Sometimes I sleep diagonally across the bed, which gives me an extra few inches of bed.”

                She shook her head.  “I never thought about it before.  Being that tall must be weird sometimes.”

                “It has its moments,” he answered. 

                Dean came in then, keys in hand, carrying his bag.  “You planning to take a nap, Sam?  Or are we going to work?”

                Catherine interrupted.  “Well, actually, if Sam wanted a nap you and I could do a supply run and pick up some food,” she suggested. 

                “No way,” Sam said, sitting up quickly.  “I’m going for food. You two stay here and start the research.  Every time Dean does the food run lately I end up with nothing to eat,” he complained.  Dean smirked, looking across the room at Catherine.  “I want something healthy to eat, not just sugar and fat.”

                “Well, whatever you grab, can you get me some Diet Coke?”  Catherine’s request was simple, so Sam nodded.  “And apparently Dean wants pie, but I am sure you already knew that.”

                Sam got the keys from Dean and disappeared.  As soon as the door shut behind Sam, Dean was at her side, pulling her into a kiss.  She sank into it, lips and tongues moving fast, and in a minute they were both gasping for breath.  Dean’s hands were all over her back, pulling her in, and Catherine’s hands were in Dean’s hair.  When they broke apart, he grinned at her.  “I feel like I’m back in high school.  Here I am, making out with a girl and hoping Sammy will stay out long enough for me to get laid.”

                She laughed and pushed him away.  “No dice, buddy.  We’re going to get to work.”  Dean looked disappointed, and she laughed again.  “Seriously, I’m still embarrassed that Sam heard us before.  I really don’t want him to walk in with burgers and see us!”  Dean chuckled.  “I’m going to get my laptop and pull the police reports on the victims.”  She set up her gear and started in on the reading, finding the police and coroner’s reports on each of the six victims.  By the time Sam returned, she’d read through them all.  Dean had a map up, and was plotting important locations.  Where they lived, where they died… anything that might help them to connect the dots.

                “I got your Diet Coke, Catherine,” Sam told her as he handed out the food.  He passed her a bag that held 6 cold cans. 

                “Sam Winchester, you are now officially my favorite person in the world,” she replied.  Dean glared a little, jokingly, before finding the pie Sam had picked up for him.

                “Apple pie?  Awesome.  You’re my favorite person too, Sammy,” Dean piled on.   Sam sorted out the food while Catherine popped open a Diet Coke.  “And a bacon cheeseburger?  Yes.”

                Catherine sighed at the taste of the soda.  “Oh my god, I’d missed this.”  The two men stared at her.  Defensively, she explained herself.  “I’m a little addicted, okay?”

                Sam shook his head and started on his salad.  “So what did you find out while I was gone?”

                “Well,” she replied, taking the lead while Dean stuffed his face, “there really isn’t any connection between the victims.  None of them worked together, no common friends, they didn’t even know each other.  The only similarity is that for each one, there’s no clear cause of death.  The coroner can’t find any marks on the bodies.  There’s no toxin in the system.  None of them had heart attacks.  Whatever is killing them leaves no evidence at all.”

                Dean swallowed his mouthful, then joined in.  “They don’t live or work in the same part of town, but the deaths are all on the same side of town – over on the East side.  I marked them all on a map.”

                “Are there any connections between where they died?” Sam asked. 

                Dean turned his laptop around, showing Sam the screen.  “The cops who investigated the scenes did notice one weird thing.  At every crime scene, there was at least one dead bird or snake around, sometimes more.  The birds had been burned, but the snakes were just dead.”

                Catherine ate slowly, thinking it through.  Something about that seemed oddly familiar, but she couldn’t place it.  Or maybe it was just odd?  She wasn’t sure.  Dean and Sam had moved on without her, planning to get into their Fed suits and check the various crime scenes.  She was stuck, though, trying to put her finger on whatever it was that she could almost remember.  She sipped her Diet Coke, thinking about the case files. 

                “Cath?”  She looked up.  Dean was talking to her, and apparently she hadn’t been paying attention. 

                “Yeah, sorry,” she answered.  “What did I miss?  I was deep in thought.”

                “Can you look up some info on the victim’s pasts while we’re out?  Maybe it’s further back,” Dean said.

                “Sure,” she said.  Research would probably shake things loose from her mind; it usually did.  As they ate the rest of the meal, they chatted idly about things.  Sam had seen a bar nearby, and if things went well, maybe they’d go for a drink later.  Dean had it in his head to stop at a roadhouse on the way back, but Sam wanted to go to a movie, if there was time.  She didn’t mind either way, but then again, she wouldn’t mind dropping by a store to get a few more things. 

                When Sam and Dean got up to change, she cleared up the garbage and set up her research again.  She was already well back in victim number one’s past when the boys were ready to go.  “Lock the door when we leave,” Dean instructed.  “Latch it too.  Don’t open it for anyone else.”

                “Dean,” she stopped him.  “Not my first time.  Relax.”

                He pointed to her bag.  “What do you have in there for weapons?”  She knew he wouldn’t leave unless she was well stocked. 

                “My handgun and two spare clips.  One has silver bullets.  Salt.  Angel blade.  You know, the basics.”

                Dean considered her list.  “Holy water?”

                “Obviously,” she replied.

                “Okay.”  He gave in.  Sam was ready now, suit and tie in place, and they needed to get going.  “We’ll call with any information.   You do the same.”

                She nodded.  “Dean, something about this is bugging me.  Be careful, okay?  I don’t think this is a demon or ghost, or anything I’ve seen before, but it sounds really familiar and I just can’t place it.” He nodded, then headed to the door.

                When they were gone, she settled in for another look through the case files, hoping something new would catch her eye.  The files had limited information; there really wasn’t much to go on.  She pulled up the crime scene photos, seeking connections between victims, looking for anything to give them a lead.  She studied them carefully, checking the positions of the bodies, hoping to see something new.  Nothing.

                After a few hours, Sam called.  “You’re on speaker,” he told her.  “Anything on your end?”

                “Nothing,” she answered.  “Did you get anything new?”

                Dean replied this time.  “No.  The cops are stumped.  The crime scenes are clean.  No EMF anywhere.  We’re pulling up at the next one now.”

                “They’re all in an older part of town,” Sam chipped in.  “Apparently the East side of town is what they call Old Town, because it’s the original town site.  Might be ghost related, but we can’t find any proof.”

                Catherine clicked the mouse, flipping through the photos again.  The houses in the area did look a bit dated.  She switched to a web browser, searching for suspicious deaths in the area.  She heard the engine cut off, so they must have been at the next scene.  “Nice neighbourhood,” Dean commented drily.  “Let me take you off speaker,” he said.  She could hear the doors open and close, and Dean started to talk again, asking her to look into the deaths. 

                “Already on it,” she replied.  “I don’t see anything yet.”

                And then she heard sound in the background.  Sam was shouting, Dean wasn’t talking to her anymore, but he hadn’t hung up the phone.  There was yelling, and she heard the word ambulance.  “Dean!  DEAN!  Talk to me!  What’s happening?”

                He came back to the phone.  “Some woman just dropped dead.  Hang on.”  She heard his feet on the pavement, running.  He spoke with Sam, low, urgent tones, then came back to the phone.  “We’ll call you right back.”  The line went dead.

                She waited, scanning the internet, finding nothing. When the phone rang, just ten minutes later, she’d determined there was nothing useful.  “Dean?”

                “Yeah.  We’re okay.”  He answered the question before she could even ask.  “Cops are here now.  The woman’s definitely dead.  She was just sitting on a bench, then she made a sound and died.  Sam thinks he saw something run into the sewer right after she keeled over.”

                Catherine looked at the photos, the uncomfortable feeling of familiarity nagging her again.  She found a sewer grate and saw that it was a very old style of grate.  She flipped through the photos, seeing an identical grate near every scene.  “Dean.  There’s a sewer grate near each of the bodies.  That’s how this thing is travelling.”  She pulled up town records, found a diagram of the sewage system.  She could hear Dean telling Sam what she’d found.  “You said they call this part of town Old Town?  It has its own sewer system.  That’s why the deaths haven’t spread past the East side.”

                She paused, still stuck with that feeling.  “Ask Sam what he thinks he saw, will you?”  Dean relayed the question, and there was a pause.  Sam came on the line.

                “Hey.  I only got a glimpse, but it looked like a tail.”

                “A tail?”

                “Yeah,” Sam said.  “Like, a lizard tail, or maybe a snake.”

                Something connected then, and she knew, suddenly, what they were dealing with. “Get out of there.  Right now.  Don’t look at the grate.  Now.”

                Sam didn’t question.  She could hear their feet, walking fast, and she heard the cars doors open and close.  The engine revved, and then she could hear them both.  She was on speaker.

                “What the hell?” Dean asked.

                “It’s a basilisk,” she said.  There was a pause.  “It’s a really dangerous lizard.  Very rare.  It kills with a glance.”

                She couldn’t see Dean and Sam, but she knew that they’d be exchanging a look before asking any questions.  “A… basilisk?”

                “Yes,” she replied.  “It’s called the king of serpents.  It’s a snake, but much more dangerous, and it kills relentlessly.” She slipped through the photos again, noticing that near each sewer grate, there were dead plants.  “Look, it kills almost everything it gets near.  There were dead plants near the sewer grate, right?  There are in all the pictures.  It kills all the living things around it.  Apparently if you stab it, even with a spear, the poison would run up the spear and kill you.  The smell of it kills snakes.   It breathes fire that kills birds.  It kills humans with just a look.  If it sees you, you’re dead.”  She paused in her explanation.

                “Well that’s just freakin’ great!” Dean said.  “How do we kill this king?”

                “Hang on, I need to search,” she replied.  “It was something weird.”

                “It’s always something weird,” Dean grumbled. 

                She skimmed the pages, looking for the right link.  “Got it.  Only a weasel can kill a basilisk.” 

                Sam spoke this time.  “A weasel?”

                “You have to catch one, drop it into the basilisk’s hole, which in this case is the sewer, and apparently the smell of the weasel will kill the basilisk.”  Catherine checked again, finding the same information on a different site.

                “We have to find a weasel.”  Sam’s voice was full of disbelief.

                “Yes,” she replied.  “And we need to find a way to make sure the basilisk is heading toward where you’re going to drop the weasel in the sewer system.”

                “Great.”  Dean was not impressed.  “Where are we going to get a weasel?”

                “Well…” Catherine knew Dean wasn’t going to like the answer.  “They’re wild animals, and this town is basically in the woods…”  She could almost hear Dean’s irritation through the phone.

                “You want us to go out and HUNT a WEASEL?”  He paused, practically sputtering.  “I am NOT that kind of hunter, Catherine!”

                She rolled her eyes.  “Sure.  Hang on then, I’ll just call over to the store and see if they have a couple of spare weasels lying around.”

                Sam intervened.  “Okay.  We’ll take care of the weasel.  You figure out a plan to get the basilisk moving toward one end of the system.  We need to get this done, quick, before anyone else dies.”  He hung up the phone, but not before she heard Dean mutter something about wild animals and Baby. 

                Catherine turned her attention back to her computer.  Assuming they found a weasel, she needed to figure out a way to ensure that the basilisk would be trapped in the same area of the sewer system as the weasel.  And she needed to make sure that none of them would be in danger; one look from the creature meant death, and she definitely didn’t want to risk that.  She pulled up a map of the Old Town sewer system, marking it with the locations of the dead bodies.  The system was old and didn’t have any modern updates.  From what she could tell, the system had been set up in a number of sections, and each section operated independently from the others.  They did not connect, probably so that if one stream backed up or flooded, it would not affect the neighbouring areas.  The basilisk must be living in just one system.  The location of the bodies supported that theory, as each of them was near a sewer grate that was linked to the D section, which was the closest to the woods.  Its overflow grates led to the river at the edge of the woods.  She found a street view of the neighbourhood online, and managed to find a picture of the overflow.  It was a large corrugated pipe, approximately two feet in diameter, and it had a wire mesh across its mouth.  If they dropped the weasel in there and then flooded the system, the basilisk should be forced towards that opening, where the weasel could be waiting.  She searched the rest of the system, finding that there were just ten sewer grates that the basilisk could use as exits.  If they blocked those in advance, they should be able to make the kill.

                When Sam and Dean showed up a few hours later, she had the pieces of the plan figured out.  Dean was extremely unhappy.  They’d managed to capture three weasels, and they were currently in a cage in the Impala.  The stink was unbearable.  Dean and Sam stank as well, and they were covered in filth.  She filled them in on the plan quickly.  She had already called the local police, posing as an FBI supervisor, and had the locals block off the sewer grates in question.

                “How did you manage that?” Sam asked, curious.

                “Oh, easy,” she said.  “I told them there was potential evidence in the sewer system, and that we were sending down a team of specialists to enter the sewers and comb them for evidence.  I gave them very specific information about how to seal the grates – and told them, in no uncertain terms, that if they saw anything, they were to immediately clear the area, as they did not have the authorization or clearance to be involved in a classified federal investigation.” Her voice took on the timbre of an authority figure as she spoke, showing them how she’d made the work happen.  “The supervisor called me back half an hour ago, saying it had all been done.”

                Sam smiled.  “So what do we do next?”

                She explained about the overflow.  They would have to stand on top of the pipe, so that the basilisk couldn’t see them, and open the wire covering just enough to get the weasels in.  Then, they had to flood the system from the other end by opening a fire hydrant, which would produce enough pressure to move everything through the system. 

                “So who’s going to open the hydrant?” Dean asked.

                “Well,” she said slowly, “this is the problem.  We’ll need three people.  One to handle the hydrant, and it has to be one of you – I don’t think I can open the water valve on a hydrant.  And two people probably need to deal with the weasels at the overflow grate.”

                “No.”  Dean was already adamant.

                “Dean,” Sam started to speak, but Dean cut him off.

                “The agreement was that you wouldn’t hunt,” Dean said, looking at Catherine accusingly.

                “Yeah, I know, but what other options do we have?”  Her question was directed at them both.  “Besides, it’s not like we’re hunting werewolves or demons.  I’d stand on the pipe and hold a weasel cage.  You can do the heavy lifting – I’d just be there to hand you things so that we could move quickly.”

                “She’s got a point, Dean.”  Sam moved to stand beside her, and she flinched at the smell.  He smiled apologetically.

                “Yeah, and what happens if that thing gets loose?  You going to fight it off?” 

                “It kills with a single look, Dean, so if it gets loose we’re dead,” she replied.  “There are no second chances on this one.”  They all paused, realizing what she’d said was true.  If they made mistakes here, two of them would be dead. 

                Dean shook his head.  “I don’t like it,” he said. 

  
                Catherine rolled her eyes.  She had a feeling that if they didn’t get killed by the basilisk, she’d spend her time with Dean telling him to stop being weirdly overprotective.  She glanced at Sam, seeing an amused look on his face.  “Is he always like this?” she asked Sam.  “Does he tell you what to do all the time?”

                “Yep,” Sam responded.  Dean did not look amused.  “Look, Dean, she’s got it all figured out, and she’s right.  We need her.”

                “Fine,” Dean said.  “Let’s gear up.”  He stomped off to the bathroom, clearly unhappy. 

                While he was out of the room, Catherine touched Sam’s arm.  “You and I need to go together, Sam,” she told him.  “If I go with Dean, he’ll be all weird about protecting me, and we’ll end up making a mistake.”  Sam nodded.  “But maybe you should suggest that?”  She laughed.

                When Dean came back, she had her gear ready to go.  They went to the car, and as soon as she opened the door, the stench of the weasels hit her.  “Oh my god, Dean.  This is nasty.   So sorry about Baby.”

                He huffed.  “We’re going to have to drive all the way back to the bunker with the windows open, and we’re going to have to scrub the leather to get the smell out.”

                “I’ll clean it for you,” she promised.  “God, that really is awful.”  She climbed in the back, pushing the weasel cage to the side, and they hissed at her.  “How did you guys catch these?”

                “You don’t want to know,” Sam answered.  Dean gunned the motor and they pulled out.  It was just a short drive to the Old Town area, and when they drove past the crime scenes, they could see the plywood covering the sewer grates.  They drove to the end of the town, where the overflow emptied, and pulled up nearby.  Dean shut off the car.

                “Dean,” Catherine started, but Sam cut her off.

                “You need to go handle the hydrant,” Sam told him.  Dean started to argue, but Sam didn’t wait for him to get into it.  “Seriously, Dean, I’m going to do this part with Catherine.  Once we get the gear unloaded, you drive to the other end and wait there for the call.”

                “Why do I have to do that part?” he asked.

                Sam looked at him, eyebrow raised.  “Rock paper scissors?”

                Dean stuck out his hand, and so did Sam. On the count of three they both threw, Dean with scissors and Sam with rock.  Sam smirked at Dean.  “Every time, Dean.”

                “Shut up.”  He got back in the car.  Catherine and Sam had pulled the weasel cage from the backseat, and Sam went to the trunk to get his gear bag. Catherine followed, reaching in to pick up her stuff as well. 

                “It’s weird not to be getting the usual stuff out,” she commented.

                “Tell me about it,” Sam replied.  “No salt, no blades.”  He slammed the trunk and walked toward the cage.

                Catherine walked around the driver’s side, stopping by Dean’s open window.  She leaned down.  “Hey,” she said.  “Don’t be mad.”

                Dean looked at her, green eyes blazing.  “I’m not mad,” he replied.

                “Yes you are,” she smiled at him, reaching one hand in to cup his face.  “You’re mad at me for hunting, and you’re mad because you know you need me to be out here.  Don’t worry, Dean.  I’ll be fine.”

                “Sure,” he said.  “And if you’re not, I’ll be across town with a wrench.”

                “Sam and I will be careful.”  She leaned in through the window and kissed him, gently, before pulling back.  “We’ll see you in a few minutes.”

                She stepped back and he drove away.  “Alright Sam, let’s get to it.” She walked toward him.  “Just remember, we have to stay away from the opening.  If it can see us, it can kill us.”  Sam carried the weasels, holding them away from himself.  They approached the pipe from the side, making sure to stay out of the possible sightlines.  When they got close to the pipe, Catherine pulled a blanket from her bag.  Reaching ahead of them, she threw the blanket over the mouth of the pipe, covering it completely. 

                “Will that work?” Sam asked.

                “No idea,” she responded.  “But it can’t hurt.”

                “How are we going to pry back the mesh?” Sam asked.  He knew she had a plan.  She dug around in her bag and pulled out a blowtorch. 

                “I figure if we cut a small opening, we can put the cage up against it and just unlatch the door.” She had examined the cage on the drive over.  “Once you pop the latch, it just slides straight down.  The weasels should go right into the sewer.”

                Sam nodded.  “What about the hole?”

                She reached into her bag again, and pulled out a length of chain.  “If we don’t cut it on all four sides – just three and bend it open – we can push it back in place and secure it with chains.  We’ll have to be quick though, and still try to work from above, keeping as much of it covered as possible.”

                “Let’s get to it then,” Sam said.  He climbed on top of the pipe, sitting astride it, and began cutting the wire mesh near the top with the torch.  Catherine reached around him, holding the blanket away from where they were cutting as much as possible.  Sam was quick, and before long he’d cut enough to bend the mesh.  “Ready?” 

                She nodded.  She passed him the chains, which he laid on top of the pipe, between his legs.  She grabbed the cage and lifted it toward him, all the time staying to the side of the pipe.  She lifted the cage into position, holding it.  “Alright.  Let’s do it.”

                Sam dialed Dean.  “Open it up,” he said.  The water trickling through the overflow began to move more quickly, which meant they’d have to move fast.  Sam grabbed the mesh, bent it to the side, and Catherine shoved the cage against the grate.  There was more water now, the weasels were squealing and emitting more of their musk.  Sam gagged.  He smacked the back of the cage, scaring the weasels, forcing them out of the cage.  They chittered and squawked as they fell inside the grate, grabbing at the mesh and scrabbling up the walls.  The water was coming fast now, and Catherine needed to move.  She looked at Sam, who nodded, and then she pulled the cage away.  Quickly, Sam bent the wire back in place, and held it.  “The stupid things are trying to get out.  You’ll have to do the chains,” he told her.

                Catherine grabbed the chain, looping it through the mesh.  She had it across the wire once when she heard a strange sound.  It was lower than the sounds of the weasels, but it was definitely a living thing.  It was a hiss, long and insistent, echoing inside the pipe.  “Sam.  Sam.  It’s coming.”  She shoved the chains through again, trying to close the hole, pushing the ends around the broken mesh.  She needed to get enough through to hold the thing in place, or they’d both die.  She worked frantically, the hissing getting louder. 

                “Catherine!  Move.  MOVE!”  Sam was insistent.  She needed one more pass though, or else it would come free on the right side.  She pushed the chain through again, like a needle through a buttonhole, and hauled hard to pull it back.  She threw the ends to Sam, who grabbed and pulled hard to tighten.  She flung herself on top of the pipe, behind Sam, just as the hissing reached the end of the pipe.  She could feel the vibrations beneath her; the weasels were making high-pitched noises that signalled a fight, and the basilisk was hissing still.  The sound sent chills through her.  She dialled Dean, quickly.

                “Cut the water, Dean!”  A moment later, the water pressure began to slow, and by then, the noises had come to a stop.  The stink of the weasels was prominent, and the hissing noises had stopped completely.  They waited, Sam still holding the chains, until the water had slowed to a trickle.

                “I don’t hear anything,” Catherine said.

                “Me either,” Sam tugged on the chains, intentionally rattling the grate.  They waited.  Still nothing.

                “We need to check this thing out.  But if it’s not dead, whoever checks it will probably die,” she thought out loud.  “We could just throw in some angel oil and light up the remains?  You know, hope for the best?”

                Sam shook his head.  “No.  We need to see that it’s dead.  Ashes aren’t proof.”

                She sighed.  “I know.” She slid from the pipe.  “I’ll look.  You hold the damn chains.”  He started to protest, but she held up her hand.  She walked around the front of the pipe, slowly, kicking her foot against it near the front.  Still no response.  The blanket had washed away in the overflow, so once she stepped in front of the opening, she’d know one way or the other. 

                She pulled her phone from her pocket and turned on the flashlight.  She peeked around the edge of the pipe, shining the light so she’d have a prime view.  There, at the base of the pipe, pressed against the mesh grate, was a pile of fur and scales.  Nothing was moving. 

                She breathed a sigh of relief.  “I think we’re good, Sam.  Let’s burn this mess and be done with it.” Sam slid from the pipe and reached for his bag, pulling out a small canister of gasoline.  He handed it to her, and she poured generously, wanting this to be over.  He found the matches and lit a whole pack.  Everything was wet and resistant to flame, but the gasoline helped it along, and in minutes, the dead animals were a pile of charred remains. 

                Dean pulled up then, roaring to a stop.  He jumped from the car.  “Are you okay?  Is it dead?”

                Sam answered.  “Yeah, it’s dead.  We burned the remains,” he gestured to the smoke behind them. 

                Dean looked at Catherine, asking again.  “And you’re okay?”

                She smiled.  “We’re fine.  We stink but we’re fine.”  She could see the hint of desire in his eyes, the need he had to hold her, to touch her, to make sure she was really okay.  He held it in though, trying to treat her like a hunter, not a girl he wanted to protect.  She appreciated the effort.

                Sam picked up the bags and walked to the car.  “Let’s get out of here,” he said, his back to them.  “I really want a shower.”

                Dean reached out for Catherine then, drawing her close, resting his chin on top of her head for just a moment.  She squeezed him back, and then they walked to the car, his arm still around her.  “Yeah,” Dean agreed, “a shower would be great.” 

                They climbed into the car, making sure every window was open as far as possible, and Dean pulled out his box of tapes.  He plucked one from the box, scanned the label, and grinned.  He turned over the Impala’s engine before popping the tape into the deck.  It clicked and whirred for a second, then Lynyrd Skynyrd filled the car.  Dean turned the car around, gunning the engine, and pulled onto the road as the song got into the chorus.  She laughed, and the roared down the road toward the motel, with the classic rock song telling their story.

 

_…Ooooh that smell_  
                                        Can't you smell that smell  
                                        Ooooh that smell  
                                        The smell of death surrounds you…


	8. Chapter 8

                When they got back to the hotel, Sam grabbed the first shower.  Catherine and Dean stayed outside, trying to minimize the amount of the weasel smell that would get into their room.  They sat on the curb, watching cars on the highway.  Dean had grabbed them each a beer from the motel room fridge.

                As she sipped her beer, Catherine thought about how much things had changed for her in the past two weeks.  When her ghost hunt went sideways at that bar, she was lucky that the Winchesters had been there to bail her out.  She probably would have died otherwise.  And now, instead of hunting alone, she was working with them.  Hunting with someone else was totally different than doing it all alone.  This job, killing the basilisk, would have been impossible alone. 

                She also thought about Dean.  She didn’t know how to describe what they had; it wasn’t quite a relationship yet, but it was definitely something.  They had chemistry, and she hoped that it could become a relationship.  But in reality, most hunters didn’t do well with relationships.  She could count on one hand the number of married hunters she knew.  The rest of them were still single, still moving from town to town, sleeping their way through the states.  It was a hard life.  Would it be easier if she had someone to share it with?  Would Sam be okay with her staying?  She shook her head, just a small movement.  It was too much to figure out right now, when she still stank from today’s hunt.

                Dean turned toward her.  “Hey,” he said.  “What are you thinking about?”

                “Just how much things have changed lately,” she replied.  “I’ve never really hunted with anyone else before.  I’ve always done it alone.”

                Dean took a drink from his beer.  “Yeah, when Sam was in school I hunted alone.  It wasn’t great.”

                “It’s different having a team,” she told him.  “I wouldn’t have managed this hunt on my own.  I would have had to make some local cops do parts of it, or I would have called another hunter to get him to send a couple of people.” 

                Dean moved a little closer to her.  “Well, you didn’t have to do it alone.  We’re here.”

                She tilted her head to lean against him.  “Yeah.”  They sat that way, drinking their beers, until Sam came out of the room. 

                “Shower’s free.”  He ran his hand through his hair, still damp from the shower.  “I’m starving.  I’ll go get food while you guys get cleaned up?”

                Dean and Catherine scrambled to their feet.  “Perfect,” Catherine replied.  She slipped past Dean quickly.  “I think I’ll go first – I had to sit in the backseat with those things.”  She handed him her beer and went into the room, shedding her clothes.  In the bathroom, she was pleasantly surprised to find that the shower had good pressure, and that the water was really hot.  She scrubbed her hair, shampooing twice, desperate to have the light vanilla scent of her shampoo be the only smell she could find.  She was just about to wash her body when the bathroom door opened and Dean stepped inside. 

                “You’re too slow,” he complained, “and I stink.  I’m coming in.”  He pushed the shower curtain back, stepping into the tub slowly, giving her a chance to say no if she wanted.  She turned to face him, smiling.

                “I am not getting out until I’m 100% clean,” she warned him, squeezing body wash on her shower pouf.  “You can get in, but I’m not done.”

                He grinned and squeezed past her, stepping under the spray.  Water streamed down his hard body, making every muscle stand out.  He tipped his head back, letting the water pour over his head.  “Shampoo?” he asked.  She passed him her bottle with her free hand.  He flipped the cap open, smelling it.  “Vanilla?”

                “It smells good,” she told him.  “My hair smells fantastic.” 

                Dean leaned in to check for himself, putting his face into the wet hair that hung down her back.  “Mmmmm,” he mumbled, lips brushing her skin through the hair.  “It does.”

                “Here,” she said, holding her hand out.  “Give me that.”  She poured a little into the palm of her hand, then reached up.  Using her fingertips, she rubbed the shampoo into his scalp, massaging as she went.  Her nails scratched lightly as she worked, and Dean moaned.  She smiled, adding a little more pressure.

                “That’s…” he seemed lost for words.  “So good.  Man.”

                She put her hand on his chest, pushing him back.  “Rinse!”  She reached for her pouf again, since she’d given up on washing herself to wash him.  She added a little more body wash and waited for him to finish with his hair.  She reached out, starting at his shoulders, and began to scrub him with the soapy pouf, lathering him carefully.  Dean stood, letting her clean him.  She ran the sponge across his chest, over his belly, under his arms, then spun him to wash his back.  She ran it lightly over his backside, giving it a little squeeze as she went, and then down the backs of his legs, before spinning him around again to finish his front.  By now, he was hard, and when she washed him his erection pressed against her sponge. 

                She stood on her tiptoes, realizing that she’d always have to do that to kiss him, and pressed a gentle kiss on his lips.  “There,” she said.  “All clean.  You no longer stink.”  Dean laughed, and bent down to kiss her again. 

                “Your turn,” he said, taking the pouf from her hand.  He grabbed the body wash and poured it on, then mimicked her actions.  He ran the pouf lightly down her arms, then lifted each one to run it along the underside.  He paused at her shoulder, checking the scar there.  “How’s this feel?”  he asked.

                “It’s a little sore,” she replied.  “But it’s not too bad.  I think it’s mostly the ache of an unused muscle getting some work.”  He nodded, running his fingers over the place where he’d shot her. 

                “You’d tell me if it was hurting, right?”  Dean’s eyes were serious.

                “Yes,” she assured him.  “It’s okay.  I promise.”

                Sure that she was alright, he went back to work on cleaning her body.  He washed her breasts, running his thumbs over her nipples, causing her to breathe a little faster.  Her belly was next, gently washed, then he spun her, putting her beneath the spray to rinse her front while he washed her back.  He took his time, massaging the muscles in her back as he washed, soaping her bottom, bending to run the pouf down her legs.  He stepped in close, reaching for more body wash, pressing his erection against her back. As he poured more soap, he ground against her, and she pushed back against him.  His lips found her neck, the sweet spot where shoulder and neck meet, and he kissed her there.  Catherine’s knees nearly buckled as her nerves sang.  Then, he spun her around, carefully washing her front, sliding the pouf between her legs, following with his fingers, slipping through the running water to find her center.  She reached up, winding her arms around his neck, pulling him close. 

                “Dean,” she whispered, “kiss me.”  He dropped the sponge and pulled their bodies together, hands running from her backside to her neck, grabbing and gripping, as they kissed fiercely.  Overwhelmed by her need to be close to him, Catherine’s tongue and teeth and lips were all over his.  Dean gasped into her mouth as she nipped his bottom lip between her teeth, and she laughed.  Her hand slid down his body, wrapping around his erection.  She began to stroke him, slowly, under the running water.  Dean made a noise in the back of his throat that was practically a growl, and then he followed her actions, reaching into her folds again, sliding his fingers over her clit, slowly teasing her.  They kissed there, under the water, their hands busy.

                Catherine could feel her orgasm building, so she began to stroke Dean more quickly, feeling him tense and quiver in her hand.  She kissed him, wildly, wanting to please him, to have him feel as good as she felt.  He moaned and broke the kiss, leaning his head back.  “Ahh, sweetheart, I’m so close,” he told her, his voice full of need.  He shifted his hand, slipping two fingers inside her, his thumb pressing on her most sensitive spot, giving her exactly the right sensation.  She came after just a few more strokes of his thumb, gripping the back of his neck with her hand, head thrown back, still stroking him.  Dean pumped his hips into her hand, just twice, and came too, moaning against her skin.  They stood there, arms around each other, catching their breath.

                “God,” Dean breathed, his hands hot against her wet skin.  “The things you do to me…”

                She slid her hands down over his wet body, marvelling at the feel of his muscles as they jumped beneath her fingers.  “Where’s my pouf?” Catherine asked Dean, as he released her.  “I think we need to do another quick round of washing.”

                Dean laughed.  “Hey, doing dirty things in the shower doesn’t make you any less clean.”

                She giggled, picking up the sponge from the corner of the tub.  She quickly lathered up and rinsed, before handing it to Dean.  He raised his eyebrows.  “Oh come on, Dean, you know it’s much nicer than just using soap.  You loved how it felt.”  He considered for a moment, then shrugged and scrubbed himself clean. 

                They dried themselves quickly, not wanting to have Sam arrive and catch them in the act.  Catherine was just stepping out of the bathroom in shorts and a t-shirt, hair still dripping, when Sam got back.  Dean was sitting at the table already, beer in hand, two more on the table for Catherine and Sam.

                They sat together, laughing and talking and eating, and she thought again about how much things had changed.  She sipped her beer and watched the brothers argue.  Things were good here; Sam and Dean were easy to be with, and she felt welcome.  She could hunt alone, if she wanted.  Or she could stay here, with them, and be part of their family.  It had been a long time since she’d had family.  She thought about the life she’d lost when those demons possessed her parents, about the warmth and familiarity of loved ones.  She missed her parents all the time.  She missed her sister all the time.  But since she’d been with Dean and Sam, she felt a little less lonely, and a little more like she had people she could count on.  Whatever this was with Dean, even if it all ended in disaster or they woke up tomorrow and realized they were completely wrong for each other, she was pretty sure she could call him or Sam if she was in trouble.  She smiled to herself. 

                “What are you smiling about now?” Sam’s voice broke into her thoughts.

                She shook her head.  “Nothing, really,” she answered.  “I was just thinking that we make a pretty good team.” 

                Sam returned her smile.  “Things went well today.  It was good to have an extra person to work with.” 

                “Yeah,” Dean admitted.  “Although I don’t like you two going off to kill the snake with the death-stare and me just going to turn on the water.”

                “Next basilisk, you can shove the weasels in the hole,” she promised Dean.  He winked at her, taking a drink of his beer.  “Sam or I will go turn on the water.”

                “No more basilisks,” Sam replied.  “God, the weasels stink.  The ride home tomorrow is going to suck.”  They all agreed.  Sam stood up, stretching his tall frame.  “You guys want to watch a movie?  I think I want to relax tonight, just kick back here.”

                “Sounds good to me,” Catherine agreed.  “Dean?”

                “Yeah, sure,” he said.  “Something with action, though.  Nothing sappy.” 

                They settled in for the night, Catherine leaning against Dean, his arm around her shoulders.  Sam sat on Dean’s other side, long legs on the table in front of the couch.   They watched, laughing and talking, comfortable and relaxed together, like a team should be.  _Yes_ , Catherine thought to herself, _this is good._   She tucked into Dean’s side a little more tightly, and he smiled without looking at her.  _This is perfect._


	9. Chapter 9

                The ride back to the bunker was uneventful, other than the awful smell.  They cruised down the highway, windows down, classic rock streaming from the speakers.  Catherine sat in the back, leaning towards the fresh air.  Dean drove, as was usual, and Sam stretched out as much as possible in the passenger seat. 

                “Hey Sam,” Catherine tapped his shoulder.  “Tell me a story.”

                Sam turned his head.  “A story?” 

                “Yeah,” she answered.  “Dean’s told me a couple of stories about your hunts.  Why don’t you tell me one?”  She could see Dean watching her in the rearview mirror, smiling at her idea.  “One that was funny or weird or interesting.”

                “I don’t know,” Sam wasn’t keen on the idea. 

                “Oh, come on,” she pleaded.  “I’m sure you’ve got tons to pick from.”  She saw Sam glance at Dean, who shrugged. 

                “Tell her about the time you had to fight killer clowns, Sammy,” Dean suggested.

                Sam glared at Dean.  “Dude,” he responded.  “Not cool.”

                Dean smirked and caught her eye in the mirror.  “Sammy is afraid of clowns,” he laughed.

                Catherine’s eyes widened.  “And you actually had to hunt them?”  She paused.  “Were they… like, vampire clowns or something?”

                Sam sighed, knowing he was beaten.  “No, there was a guy who was turning kids’ worst fears into killing machines.  He was using witchcraft to do it, and he figured out that I was freaked out by clowns, so he had them attack me.” 

                “Ah, come on, Sam,” Dean cut in.  “You’re leaving out the good parts.  Like the glitter.  You can’t skip the glitter.”

                “There was glitter?” Catherine giggled in the back seat, loving the story and the way Dean teased his brother. 

                Sam found it hard to resist her laughter.  He was starting to smile now.  “Yeah… when Dean killed the witch, they exploded into a huge cloud of glitter.  I was completely covered in it.”

                Catherine laughed, imagining the huge man covered in glitter.  “Oh, I so wish you had pictures of that.”   
                “Me too,” Dean chimed in.  “Oh, hey, Sam, you should tell her about the time your imaginary friend showed up.  She’ll love that one.”

                “Seriously Dean?” Sam rolled his eyes again. 

                “Your… imaginary friend?  Those are real?” Catherine asked, incredulous. 

                “Zanna,” Sam replied.  “They are real.”

                “Oh you have got to tell me about that,” she begged.  “Sam Winchester’s imaginary friend, back for a visit.  I need to know this story.”  Reluctantly, Sam started to talk, with Dean pitching in to provide details and color commentary.  Before long, Catherine was immersed in the story, and the stink of the last hunt was forgotten.  When they pulled up outside the bunker, hours later, she had heard a number of their stories.  She’d already known that they were incredible hunters, but she didn’t know how many incredibly rare creatures they had hunted.  They had more knowledge of the supernatural than most hunters ever would.

                Back at the bunker, she headed for the cleaning supplies, determined to get the smell of the weasels out of the car for Dean.  She grabbed some baking soda too, hoping it could neutralize the odor.  She set to work quickly, leaving the doors open, washing down the leather seats.  They’d already thrown away the blanket they’d used to cover the seats, which had gotten rid of the worst of the stench, but the smell lingered.  She scrubbed, working her way through the seats and floors, wiping down the ceiling, washing off any grime or dirt she found.  She sprinkled baking soda into the carpets, just a little bit, and vacuumed it out, pulling the smell with it.  Finally, after a couple of hours of work, she stepped back from the car, satisfied.  Her shoulder ached from overuse, and she stretched it carefully, rotating her arm.  She’d probably scrubbed too hard, but her shoulder would settle down soon. 

                “What are you doing?”  Dean’s voice was gruff.

                She turned to see him leaning in the doorway.  “Oh, I told you I’d clean the car, get the smell out,” she answered, dropping her cleaning cloth into a bucket.  “I figured I’d take care of that before I showered.”  She smiled at him.  “It’s pretty much gone now.  Come check.”

                “You…” He seemed to be stuck for words.  “You cleaned my car?” 

  
                “Just the inside,” she replied.  “And don’t worry, I was careful with the leather.  I know what I’m doing.” 

                He walked over, leaning inside to inspect her work.  “I can’t believe you cleaned my car,” he mumbled. 

                She smiled.  “It’s not a big deal,” she said.  “Is it okay?”

                He stood back up, smiling, closing the door behind him. “Yeah, sweetheart.  It’s okay.  You can barely smell anything anymore.”  He closed the car’s door, then leaned against it, watching her.  She’d been rubbing her shoulder, trying to stretch the kinks out of it, and he noticed her movements.  “You hurt yourself?”

                “No,” she replied, dropping her hand.  “Just overworked it a little.” He advanced toward her, but she put out a hand to stop him.  “Nope!  Don’t come near me.  I smell like weasels and dirt, and I’m sweaty from scrubbing.  I’m going to shower.” 

                Dean laughed.  “Alright, alright.”

                She left him there, leaning against the car.  She looked back at the bunker’s door to see him smiling at her, so she winked, wiggled her butt, and went inside.

 

***

 

                A couple of hours later, after some painkillers and a long shower, the ache in her shoulder was gone and the weasel stink was forgotten.  Catherine was sitting in the main room, flipping through one of the huge reference books, when her phone pinged.  _Do you still stink?_  

                She smiled and typed a reply to Dean.  _I smell fantastic.  You remember the vanilla smell from the shower?_  

                He replied quickly.  _I remember EVERYTHING from the shower._   Another text followed.  _Come out to the car.  Let’s go somewhere._   She left the research on the table, grabbed her wallet and coat, and walked out front.  Dean was there, sitting in the Impala, listening to music and waiting for her.  When she got in, he reached across the seat and pulled her close.  His nose skimmed along the curve of her neck, breathing in her scent.  He pressed his lips against her skin, just one kiss, and then he laughed quietly. 

                “You do smell fantastic,” he admitted. 

                She elbowed him, laughing as well.  “I told you!”  She pushed herself back to the passenger side, putting on her seatbelt.  “Where are we going?”

                Dean put the car into gear and pulled away from the bunker.  “I thought we’d go out for dinner,” he said, carefully keeping his eyes on the road.

                “Wait,” she said, uncertainly.  “Is this a date?”  Dean glanced across the car at her, sheepishly.  “Like, a regular-people date?  Dinner?”  Dean nodded.  “We’re not going to kill anything?” 

                He shook his head.  “I thought we’d find a place to eat, then maybe go to a movie.  The new Marvel movie is playing, and you said you love those,” he explained.  Catherine didn’t say anything, so he kept talking.  “If that gets boring, we’ll go shopping for weapons or we’ll summon a demon to kill, okay?”  He looked at her, and he seemed nervous, like he wasn’t sure she’d want to go on a date.

                “So, nothing supernatural at all?”  He shook his head again.  “I haven’t been on a normal date since before my parents died,” she mused.  “I’m not sure what people talk about when they aren’t worried about vampires or ghouls.”

                Dean laughed, relieved that she wasn’t turning down his plan.  “I tell you what, Cath,” he replied.  “Let’s be regular people tonight.  Let’s pretend we’re just two people on a date, and that we have no idea about the other stuff.”

  
                “So,” she deliberated, “You’re going to pull out my chair, and pick out the meal, and offer to buy my favorite candy at the movie, and we’re not going to talk about any sort of angel drama or potential weapons that we can see in the room.” 

                “Yeah,” Dean tipped his head in agreement.  “But just so you know, I’m also going to try to make out with you during the movie, and I’m going to hope I get lucky at the end of the date.”

                She laughed.  “Well, you might get lucky later on, but I’m totally devoted to Captain America, so unfortunately for you, there will be no making out during the movie.”  Dean groaned.  “We could hold hands, though, and maybe you could cop a feel, if you’re really nice to me at dinner.”  They both laughed, remembering what it was like to be a teenager on those awkward first dates.

                “So are you in?  Regular people date night?” Dean reached for her hand, catching it in his as he drove.

                She smiled, squeezing his fingers.  “Definitely,” she responded.  “It’s a date.”

                “Awesome,” Dean replied. 

                They kept their hands linked for most of the night; they only let go for a few minutes here and there.  True to their word, they avoided hunting talk, which was no small feat considering the lives they led.  Catherine knew, for example, that Dean was carrying his gun, tucked in the waistband of his jeans, like he always did.  And she had a silver knife, one that had symbols carved into the blade, tucked into the top of her boot.  The boot had a sheath in the lining.  She’d sewn it in herself so that she’d have a covert way of carrying a weapon at all times.  She knew that when they’d entered the restaurant, Dean had quickly scanned the room, noting exits and entrances, making a mental list of the patrons, loosely planning the best way to escape if necessary.  She knew all of this because she had made the same observations.  She was a good hunter, and she knew that meant always being aware of her options.  Dean was an excellent hunter.  He definitely knew the score.

                Instead of hunting, they talked about all kinds of other things.  Dean told her about some of his favorite places to stop on the road, like the giant ball of string they’d both seen a thousand times.  He said it always reminded him of when Sam was little, because he’d been so excited to see it every time they drove past. 

                “You light up when you talk about Sam, you know,” Catherine observed.  “You really love him.”  There was a shift in their conversation, moving from the lighter topics to something serious.

                Dean nodded.  “When we were little, taking care of Sam was my job.  Dad always told me to watch him, make sure he was safe.  I never really stopped worrying about him.”  Dean’s smile was wry.  “We’ve been through some crazy stuff together, but it’s always been the two of us.” Catherine smiled at him, encouraging him to keep talking.  “You know that line in The Winter Soldier, the one Bucky and Cap say to each other?  I’m with you to the end of the line?  That’s us.  I’m with Sam to the end, and he’s with me to the end.” 

                Catherine looked down at the table. Dean’s words made her think of her sister, of how much she missed the bond they had shared.  She spoke softly.  “I felt like that about my sister,” she told him.  “When she died, it nearly ruined me.  We were best friends, and when I left her behind to go to college, we were both lonely.  I was really looking forward to seeing her that Thanksgiving.” She paused, finding the words.  “I was with her when she died.  It was awful, but at least I was there and she wasn’t alone.  That’s the best any of us can hope for, I think.”  She raised her eyes to find Dean watching her, his green eyes trained on her face.  He knew what she had felt when her sister died.  He’d felt that pain before.  He knew what it cost her to say the words out loud, to admit her fear.  She didn’t want to die alone, but with her sister gone, who would be there for her, when the end of the line came?  “I just… I’m not afraid of hunting, or of dying even, but I don’t want to be alone when I go.”

                Dean’s fingers tightened around hers.  “Me either,” he said.  “But you’re not alone.  You have me, and you have Sam.”  He waited for her eyes to find his again.  “And besides,” he continued, “you’re good at what you do.  You aren’t dying anytime soon.” 

                She felt tears in her eyes then, and she blinked furiously, trying to get her emotions back under control.  She hadn’t realized how lonely she had been, traveling and hunting by herself, until she met Dean and Sam.  Dean leaned in, seeing her tears, and began apologizing for making her cry.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  “I didn’t mean to upset you.  I shouldn’t have brought up stuff like that.  I broke the deal about being regular people on a date.  I’m so sorry.”  He pulled her hand toward him, turning it over, and lifted her palm to his lips, kissing it gently.  “Don’t cry, Catherine.  I’m sorry.”

                She shook her head, using her free hand to wipe the tears from her cheeks.  “No, it’s not that.  I’m okay, I promise.” She took a breath.  “You know I haven’t really cried since that night?  The loneliness was so heavy that I felt like I was drowning in it, but after that night I just learned to live with it.  I let it keep me company all this time.  I let it be all I had.  It was the reason I hunted.  But now it’s fading,” she told him, “because I met you.  And I feel so… light, now that it’s going away.”  She smiled, a watery smile that cut through her tears.  “Sorry.  I’m breaking the deal too.”

                Dean smiled back at her.  “We are not good at avoiding the hunting topics.”

                “Next time we go on a date, we’ll have to write down a list of safe topics before we go,” she joked, trying to lighten things up.  “Like politics and religion.”

                Dean snickered.  “Politics are fine, sweetheart, but religion’s definitely not.  Too many ties to the dicks with wings and God and all that.”  He rolled his eyes.  “That’s not date talk.”  He waved to the waitress, signalling for the bill.  “Let’s get out of here.  The movie starts soon, and we need time to pick out your favorite candy.”

                Catherine wiped her cheeks again, then stood from the table.  Dean put his arm around her shoulders.  “You sure you’re okay?” he asked her, squeezing her against his side. 

                “Yeah,” she answered.  “I really am.”  Dean leaned in and kissed her temple before walking her to the car.  He opened the door for her, letting her get in.  Before he closed it, he leaned down to kiss her.  It was a soft kiss, gentle and kind, and she could feel the heat behind it, just waiting to be set free.  When he pulled away, Dean spoke again.  “I meant it, you know,” he said.  “You do have us, for as long as you want.  Sam thinks of you as part of the family now – he told me he thinks you should stay. And I already told you that you can count on me.  I said I’d be the weapon in your possession, and I meant it.  You aren’t alone anymore.” He smiled.  “You have me.”

                He brushed his fingers across her face.  “Thank you,” she whispered. He closed the door, and walked around the car, sliding behind the wheel.  He said nothing as he started it up, but as he put the car in gear, he looked over toward her.

                “Are you with me?” he asked, holding out his hand.

                Without hesitation, she threaded her fingers through his.  “To the end of the line,” she replied.  He smiled, squeezed her hand, and stepped on the gas. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone's a Marvel fan... it's not just me who quotes Marvel movies in their everyday life, right? Comments and suggestions welcome - this has evolved into much more than the one-shot that I started with. Thanks for reading.


	10. Chapter 10

                The rest of the evening was smooth sailing.  They went to the new Marvel movie, because Catherine needed to know how things went down between Bucky and Cap.  Dean bought a big bag of popcorn, a bag of licorice, a Diet Coke for Catherine, and they watched the movie together.  For a few hours all they had to worry about was the battle on the screen.

                They talked about the movie on the drive back to the bunker.  Catherine could not choose a side, but Dean came down firmly on Cap’s side.  “He’s doing the right thing, no matter the cost,” Dean argued, trying to convince her to pick sides. 

  
                “Sure,” she agreed.  “But Tony’s not wrong either,” she said.  “Absolute power is a terrifying thing.  Without a system of checks and balances, the Avengers run the risk of doing more harm than good sometimes.  And really, Dean, it’s more about beliefs.  Tony believes he’s doing the right thing. Steve believes he’s doing the right thing.  Both of them are faced with exceptionally hard choices that pit friendship against morality.  The funny thing is that they’re trying to take two different paths to achieve the same end.” 

                Dean rolled his eyes at her.  “You are taking this way too seriously.”

                “I know,” she replied.  “I just can’t help it!  My inner geek gets all carried away.”

                He laughed.  “You’re cute when you’re nerdy,” he said, and she blushed. 

                When they got back to the bunker, they found a note from Sam.  He’d borrowed Catherine’s car and gone out for a couple of hours.  Dean looked at her, raising one eyebrow.  “I guess we’re on our own,” he said.

                She laughed.  “I’m willing to bet Sam didn’t want to risk hearing us again.” 

                Dean stepped closer, putting his hands on her hips, pulling her close.  “Well,” he said, his voice husky and rough, “we can’t let this opportunity go to waste.”  He kissed her neck, just below the jawline, and worked his way down her neck, lips soft against her skin.  She sighed, letting her body sink into his, sliding her hands around his neck.  She ran her fingertips through his hair, tugging gently on the ends, eliciting a small moan from Dean.  His breath was hot on her skin.

                “Dean,” she spoke urgently.  “Let’s go to the bedroom.”  He kept kissing, working up now, his teeth grazing her earlobe.

                “Why?” His voice was a whisper in her ear.  “Sam’s out.  We have the place to ourselves.  We could get naked right here, right now.  I could sit in that chair,” he continued, his hand slipping beneath her shirt, cupping her breasts and tracing her nipples through her bra, “and you could ride me, sweetheart.”  She gasped, letting her head fall back, as his hands and mouth worked.  He licked and kissed across her collarbones, moving to the other side of her neck.  “Wouldn’t you like that?”

                She sighed, a sound of total pleasure, and found the words to answer him.  “Yes,” she breathed, “but not today.  Please.”

                His hands disappeared from her shirt, and a second later she found herself off the floor.  Dean lifted her easily, sweeping her into his arms, his mouth meeting hers.  He kissed her, smiling.  “To bed, then,” he agreed.  She giggled, and leaned back in to kiss the tip of his nose.  He carried her down the hall. 

                In the bedroom, when he set her down, she had him sit on the edge of the bed.  Looking into his eyes, she pushed his shirt down his arms, then pulled his t-shirt over his head, leaving him shirtless.  She slowly tugged her own shirt off, standing in front of him, and then released her bra.  She straddled his lap, hugging into his body.  They kissed again now, but it was soft, slow kissing.  She ran her hands across his back, feeling the smooth skin and the muscles beneath, loving the way it felt to have his skin against hers.  Dean’s hands cupped her backside, pulling her tighter against him.  She could feel his erection, pushing against her through their jeans. 

                She broke the kiss.  “Hey,” she said, “I just want you to know something.  I’m really happy right now.”

                Dean grinned at her, rolling his hips against her.  “Me too,” he teased. 

                She laughed.  “You know what I mean!  I’m just, I don’t know, content.”  She smiled at him.

                Dean stood, lifting her with him, and in one smooth motion he’d turned and laid her on the bed, leaning over her on one elbow.  He kissed her quickly, and said again, “Me too.”  This time there was no joke behind his words.  He reached down as he kissed her, popping the button on her jeans, working the zipper down, sliding a hand inside her panties.  She was already wet, and he smiled as he kissed her.  He pulled away to remove her pants, sliding them off and throwing them on the floor.  He pulled off his own pants too, adding them to the pile of discarded clothes.

                Their hands were everywhere as they kissed; their lips and tongues pressed together as hands slid and squeezed and stroked every inch of each other’s flesh.  Dean fumbled in the bedside table for a condom, and Catherine rolled it on for him.  She pushed him onto his back, straddling him again, rubbing her wetness against him to tease him.  He reached up to her breasts, rolling her nipples between his fingers, and she arched her back, pressing them more firmly into his hands.  She positioned herself, and ever so slowly, watching his green eyes all the time, she slid onto him, lowering bit by bit until he was fully seated in her.  His hands reached for hers, and they laced their fingers together.

                She began to move then, slowly at first, letting her hips draw an arc across his body.  Her thighs tensed and tightened with each movement, and Dean watched her.  He started to thrust his hips in time with her movements. She could hear her own breathing, harsh and sharp, and Dean’s, speeding up as they went.  She found herself moaning, just small sighs and sounds of pleasure, as she picked up the pace.  Dean’s eyes were wide with lust, watching her skin flush and color as she moved.  He let go of her hands, reaching for her hips, pulling her down onto him harder, feeling her buck and roll.  She leaned toward his chest, changing the angle slightly, and she cried out, a single “oh!” as he thrust harder into her. 

                “Cath…” Dean’s word was a plea, and she gasped as he moved one hand between them, stroking her clit, his other hand urging her on.  She was working hard now, skin gleaming with sweat, nipples tight, and Dean’s finger was on her sweet spot, circling and sliding and just perfect.  She came, crying out as she did, and her tightening muscles pushed Dean over the edge.  She collapsed against his chest, hips still moving, but slowly and erratically, grinding the last twinges of pleasure from her orgasm.  Eventually they were still, gasping for air, skin sticky with sweat, pressed against each other tightly.

                Dean’s arms lifted to wrap around her, hugging her to his chest.  She lay there, warm and relaxed, until Dean rolled her off to remove the condom.  He threw it out and pulled her close again, tucking her against his side. 

                “So,” she said, “I’d call this a successful date night.”  Dean laughed.  She turned to face him, putting her arm around his waist.  “You sure know how to treat a girl, Dean.  A nice dinner, good movie, awesome sex…”

                “Yeah,” he replied.  “I was a little bit worried that you wouldn’t put out, since it’s our first date and all.”

                It was her turn to laugh now.  “But you turned on the Winchester charm and made it happen, huh?”

                “Oh, you know it, babe,” Dean replied, laughing with her. 

                “We should do this again sometime,” she suggested. 

                Dean raised his head to make eye contact.  “Sometime?”  He reached down to caress her breast, smiling evilly.  “I’m figuring we can do this again in about, say, 20 minutes.”  He winked at her, teasing her.

                “Not sex, you goof,” she replied.  He looked sad, so she explained.  “Well, yes, sex.  But I mean regular-people date night.  It was nice to take a break from hunting.”

                “Once in a while, Sam and I do something for ourselves – go to a movie, check out some tourist trap for a laugh.  Everyone needs a break.  It never lasts very long, but even if we just sit by a lake and have a beer, we make sure to take a time out.  You need to do that too,” he told her.  “Find something you want to do that’s not hunting related and do it, every now and then, otherwise you’ll go nuts.”

                She thought to herself about her past, about the things she’d loved before this became her life.  Here, with Dean and Sam, she could probably relax enough to do some things for herself.  With them, on their team, maybe her whole life didn’t have to be demons and death.  She sighed contentedly, thinking of it all.

                “You okay, Catherine?” Dean asked.

                “Yeah,” she answered.  “I’m great.” 

                He nudged her with his knee.  “Good,” he said.  “Because Sammy won’t be back for a while, and I’m thinking we should make a naked run to the kitchen, grab some beers, and get ready for round two.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her suggestively, and she had to laugh.  He was so funny, so full of joy when he wasn’t tied up in the hunting life, that she couldn’t help but enjoy every moment.

                “You’re on, Winchester,” she said, shoving his arm off her shoulder and leaping to her feet.  “I’ll race you to the fridge.  Loser pays for the next date!”  She was off and running, bare feet slapping on the floor, Dean’s laughing protests behind her as she raced through the halls of the bunker.  She knew, if she looked behind her, she’d see him chasing her.  She laughed as she ran, free and relaxed in a way she hadn’t been for years. 

                She really was happy.


	11. Chapter 11

                Laughing and running through the bunker naked, Catherine was focused on beating Dean to the kitchen.  She glanced over her shoulder, trying to see how much of a lead she had on him, when she entered the main room.  She wasn’t watching what was ahead, which is why she didn’t see whatever it was that she ran into.  She smacked solidly into something hard, bouncing off it and sprawling backwards onto the floor. The back of her head hit the floor hard enough that she saw stars, and she was stunned, left lying there, naked, with Dean shouting behind her.

                “Dammit Cas!” Dean yelled.  Catherine’s vision was blurry, but she saw a man standing over her, wearing a trench coat.  He had the bluest eyes she had ever seen.  She shook her head, trying to clear it, as Dean reached her.  He knelt beside her, still shouting at Cas.  “You can’t just zap yourself in here!”

                “Why are you naked, Dean?” His voice was gravelly, low and almost monotone.  “Why are you chasing this girl?  Is she a threat?”

                Dean made the most exasperated sound a human being could make.  “CAS!” He shouted.  “Get out of here!  Go to the kitchen or something!”  His hands were on Catherine’s head now.  He ran his fingers over the back of her head, checking her there.  “Cath.  Are you okay?”

                She shivered against the cold floor. “I think so.  Who the hell was that?  I ran into him, and it was like hitting a wall.  I bounced off him.  Literally bounced.”  She started to sit up, Dean helping her.  He looked at her anxiously.

                “Did you hit your head?”  She knew what he was thinking.  She wasn’t long recovered from her concussion, and the last thing she needed was another head injury. 

                “Yeah,” she nodded ruefully.  “I think I’m okay.”  She got to her feet, staggering slightly.  Dean’s eyebrows shot up and he grabbed her arm, steadying her.  “Okay, maybe I’m a little shaky.  It should pass.” She paused, taking a breath. “Seriously, Dean, who’s the dude in the coat?”

                “We need clothes,” Dean said, pulling her towards the bedroom.  “That’s Cas.  Castiel.  He’s an angel.”

                Catherine stopped dead in the middle of the hall.  Naked or not, she needed answers.  “I just – I just RAN into an angel?  NAKED?” She groaned.  “That’s just great.  What’s he doing here?”

                Dean shrugged.  “He’s our friend,” he answered simply.  “If he’s here, he needs something.”

                She pressed her hands to her eyes, sighing.  “You’re friends with an angel.  And he needs something.  And he’s seen me naked.  I mean, I knew angels existed, and God and all that, but this is not the first impression I wanted to make on an angel of the Lord, Dean.”  Her cheeks flamed red, and she stomped into the bedroom as he chuckled quietly behind her.  They dressed quickly, and Catherine put on an extra layer or two, trying to cover her embarrassment with a hoodie and warm socks.  When they were dressed, Dean reached for her hand, and they walked back to the kitchen together.

                Cas was standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring blankly at the fridge.  He did not turn when they entered, keeping his back to them.

                “Cas,” Dean still sounded annoyed.  “What are you doing?”

                “Dean,” Cas answered, still turned away from them.  “Are you clothed?”

                Dean rolled his eyes.  “Yes.”

                Cas finally turned around.  “I am sorry, Dean.  I did not mean to offend you.  It seems that I have interrupted something, although I do not understand what.”  Out of the corner of her eye, Catherine saw Dean roll his eyes again.  She had a feeling that he did that a lot when dealing with Cas.  “Is this like the pizza man again?”

                Dean sputtered, unable to come up with a quick response.  Catherine turned to Dean.  “Pizza man?” 

                “Uh, Cas found the porn channels in a motel once,” Dean explained. 

                “Ah,” Catherine nodded, then realized that wasn’t a favorable comparison.  “Hey wait now…” Dean held up a hand.

                “No, Cas, this is not like the pizza man,” he said, as patiently as he could manage.  “This is Catherine.  She’s a hunter.  She and I are…” Dean looked over at Catherine, looking for the right words.  “Together.”

                Cas nodded, slowly.  “I understand.”  There was a pause.  “But why were you naked and running?”

                “Cas!” Dean’s meagre patience had dissipated.  Catherine laid her hand on his arm, tugging him back. 

                “We were fooling around, Cas,” she explained gently.  “Playing.”

                Cas thought about this for a moment.  “So no one was in danger?”

                Catherine shook her head.  “No, everything was fine.  We were having a race, that’s all.”  Before he could ask, she added, “naked” and smiled at him.  Cas seemed to accept that, and Dean looked at Catherine gratefully, happy that she had explained it in a way that the angel could grasp.

                “So what do you need, Cas?” Dean didn’t waste any time getting to the point. 

                “Where’s Sam?  I require your assistance,” Castiel replied.  He looked at Catherine warily, unsure if she could be trusted, she assumed. 

                “Sam’s out,” Dean answered.  “Tell us what’s up, Cas.”  He grabbed a beer from the fridge, passed it to Catherine, and pulled one for himself before sitting at the table.  Catherine sat beside him, still smiling at Cas, hoping he’d decide she was trustworthy. 

                Cas looked at them seriously.  “There is,” he spoke slowly, carefully, “a problem in Heaven.”

                Dean snorted.  “What else is new?”  Catherine elbowed him.  “What?  There’s always a problem in Heaven!”

                “One of the angels has… gone rogue,” Cas said.  “He has decided to abandon Heaven.  He has left the garrison and gone into hiding.”

                “What’s the problem with that?” Dean asked.  “You leave all the time and hang out with us.”

                “He’s probably hiding in hell.  With Crowley.”  Catherine glanced at Dean, who wasn’t confused by the name.  It must be someone they’ve dealt with before. 

                Dean recognized her confusion.  “Crowley’s a demon.  He’s the king of Hell.”  Dean turned back to the angel.  “Still not seeing a huge problem, Cas,” Dean replied.  “You’ve worked with Crowley more than once.”

                “This angel has a very special skill set,” Cas explained.  “He was given the job of keeping track of the gates.”

                Catherine looked at Dean, hoping this made more sense to him than to her.  “The gates?” she asked.

                “Yes.”

                She waited, but Cas didn’t explain.  She glanced at Dean again, and he shook his head at her, just as confused.  “You want to explain that, Cas?  We’re a little lost.”

                Castiel looked at her, then Dean, and seeing their confusion he began to talk.  Catherine was amazed at his voice, so much so that she almost missed his words.  It was so low, so gravelly, that she wondered if it hurt him to speak.  “The gateways are the points of entry from one part of this world to the next.  Crowley controls Hell, of course, but there are several others.  This angel, Hadraniel, is the watcher of the gates.  He knows where the gates are between Heaven and Earth, between Earth and Purgatory, between Purgatory and Hell… do I need to go on?” Emotion had come into Castiel’s voice as he spoke.  “If Hadraniel gives Crowley the locations of the gates, and if he tells him how to open the gates, Crowley can unleash chaos on the world.”

                Dean sat back in his chair.  “Well, that’s just awesome.”  His voice was heavy with sarcasm.  “And what are we supposed to do about it?”

                Cas looked at Dean, not responding to his tone.  “I need your help.  Hadraniel must be returned to Heaven.  You are uniquely equipped for this job.”  Catherine had no idea what that meant, but Dean clearly did.  He immediately stood from his chair and began pacing the room.  “Dean, it is unclear what Hadraniel hopes to achieve by hiding with Crowley.  He went there willingly, that much we do know, so we are afraid that he may willingly give up the information.  He was quite…” Cas paused, seeking the right word.  “…distraught when he left Heaven.  His emotions may overwhelm his judgement.”

                Catherine interrupted.  “Okay, just to clarify, you want Dean to go to Hell and retrieve an angel who chose to go there, and who is being hidden by the demon king of Hell.  Is that correct?”  Cas nodded.  “That seems like an incredibly bad idea.”

                “Stupid,” Dean cut in.  “Stupid is the word you’re looking for.”

                “But if we do not remove him from Hell, Crowley may torture him for the information he desires,” Cas pointed out.  “Crowley has been successful in torturing angels before.”

                Both Dean and Cas were silent then, and Catherine had a feeling that they had firsthand experience with Crowley’s skills.  “We need Sam to come home,” she spoke softly.  “I can go call him.”  She stood to leave the room.  Dean’s hand caught at her wrist as she passed him, but he didn’t speak.  He just looked at her for a long moment, and then let go, nodding his agreement. 

                She went to their room and texted Sam.  _Castiel is here, and he wants Dean to do something dangerous.  Come back ASAP please?_   Sam responded almost immediately, telling her he would be there in 15 minutes.  She flopped back on the bed, rubbing at her forehead, just now realizing that she had a headache from the incident with the floor.  Or from the confusion she was feeling, which was an equally likely culprit.

                “Hey,” Dean said.  “Is your head okay?”  He crawled onto the bed beside her, reaching with one hand to touch her face. 

                She debated lying, but she had promised to tell him the truth about her head.  “I have a headache.  Not sure if it’s from banging my head off an angel and the floor, or if it’s from the story Cas just told us.”

                Dean huffed and lay back on the bed.  They lay there for a few moments, silence spreading between them.  Eventually she reached her fingers over and hooked them through his.  His whole body was tight and full of tension, and she knew there was an awful lot to the story that she didn’t understand.

                “Dean,” she started, “Why does Cas think it has to be you?  What did he mean when he said you are ‘uniquely equipped’ to do this job?”

                She could almost hear Dean shutting her out.  It was like he slammed some walls into place and locked down any real feelings - other than anger.  “Previous life experience.”  He got up from the bed and left the room without saying anything else, and she was more confused than before. 

                Sam showed up a few minutes later, and the whole process began again.  The four of them met in the main room, where Cas repeated his request.  This time, though, Dean was sullenly silent throughout the discussion, but Sam asked enough questions for both of them. 

                “What happened to make Hadraniel leave Heaven?” 

                “How long has he been with Crowley?”

                “Can you hear him on angel radio?”

                Castiel’s answers were simple, direct.  Hadraniel requested that he be granted a break, a furlough from his job, Cas told them.  He told the others he needed a change, a diversion from watching the gates, but what he really wanted was to come to Earth and spend time with a human he’d been watching for years.  Hadraniel had fallen in love, and he wanted to go experience life on Earth.  The other angels had denied his request; since he was the watcher of the gates and he knew their locations, which wasn’t knowledge that had been given to all angels.  The whole dispute had taken place a week ago, which meant that Hadraniel had been in Crowley’s care for seven days.  He had not been in touch with any of the angels; they knew he was with Crowley because they had eavesdropped on some demons.  Crowley had hidden him, as well as the human he loved, and the angels were unable to find out Hadraniel’s location. 

                Sam turned to Dean, who still hadn’t spoken.  “Hey,” he said softly.  “What do you think?”

                Dean looked up at Sam.  He glanced at Cas, and at Catherine, before saying anything.  “I think the angels need to learn to handle their own problems instead of asking us to deal with their crap.”  No one said anything, so he sighed heavily and continued.  “Are we supposed to just find the guy?  Or do they want us to drag an angel out of Hell, kicking and screaming?”

                Cas answered.  “If you can break the warding, the angels can retrieve him.  If not, we would need you to return him to us.”

                “How are we supposed to do that, Cas?”  Sam was asking the logical questions.

                “You have angel blades,” Cas stated simply. 

                Dean’s anger began to boil up again.  “Angel blades aren’t enough!  We won’t get through the front door before Crowley’s goons will be on us.  We can kill some demons, but we can’t make an angel do anything.”

                Catherine had been quiet throughout the conversation, but something had been lurking in the back of her mind.  She stood up and went to the other table, where her research materials lay.  She rifled through her notes, flicking pages quickly, seeking the notes she’d made when she first started helping Sam with research.  She scanned her sketches, and went to the shelf to pull the original book out.  Behind her, the boys were deep in discussion with Castiel, pointing out that though they probably could get to the angel, they would have great difficulty removing him from Crowley’s care.  She turned back to them, carrying the thick book.

                “Guys,” she interjected, “I may have something that can help.”  She slid the book onto the table, opening it to the pages she’d noted.  “Sam, remember when we were doing the angel research a few weeks ago?  I sketched out some sigils that might be useful for dealing with angels.”  Cas looked at her, eyebrow raised.  She could see, in that moment, the avenging angel he could be – all cold fury and righteous morality.  “We had been looking for something to shield a person from angels, which we didn’t find.  We did find these, though,” she said, tapping the page in the book.  “Look.”

                There was a collection of markings there, tested by the Men of Letters, that had been proven effective with angels.  The top one, which the boys had already known, was used to send angels away.  Beneath that, there were several more – one to freeze the angels, as if time had stopped, one to prevent an angel from disappearing once they’d entered a room, and one to silence the angels’ connection to each other, so they couldn’t communicate.  There were several others, but the key one was at the bottom of the page.

                “Here,” Catherine pointed.  The sigil was simple, cleaner than most in terms of how it looked.  It was a circle, with an arrow pointed inwards.  The body of the arrow crossed through the same character that was used in the banishing sigil.  “According to the lore, this one sort of deactivates an angel’s grace for a short time.”

                “Deactivates?” Sam repeated.

                “Yeah,” she answered.  “It makes them like a mortal for a while.”

                Castiel looked distinctly uncomfortable.  “I’m not sure that humans should know this sigil,” he began, but Dean cut him off.

                “So if we can get to him and use this sigil, he would be like a regular person,” he said to Catherine.

                “Yes, if it’s accurate,” she replied.  “But the book doesn’t say how long it lasts, so you’d be able to handle him like a person, and he’d be much easier to bring back from wherever he is in that form.”

                Sam weighed in.  “We need more information,” he stated.  “What if it only lasts for, like, 5 minutes?  We need to be sure we can get him out.”

                “You’re right, Sam.  We need to know exactly how long it will last,” she agreed.  Catherine looked over at Cas, a slow smile spreading across her face.  She didn’t say anything, but Dean saw her expression, and realized what she was thinking.  He turned to stare at Cas.  Sam, too, caught on, and he turned toward Cas with a smile.  The angel looked at them all blankly, not realizing what the rest of them were thinking. 

                “Who wants to do the honours?” Catherine pulled the knife from the hidden sheath in her boot, offering the blade to the brothers.  “It has to be drawn in blood, then activated like the banishment sigil.”

  
                Castiel caught on.  “I… I do not think this is wise,” he said.  “I am needed in Heaven.”

                Dean leaned forward.  His voice was hard and unhappy.  “Yeah?  Well, buddy, you need our help, and this is how you get it.  We’re not going in there on a wing and a prayer.  We need a plan, and this is it.  So you can be our guinea pig and see how long this stalls your grace, or you can find another way to get your gatekeeper back.” 

                Cas was silent for a moment.  “You may use the sigil on me.  But I would like to ask for something.”

                Sam answered this time, which was probably good since Dean was in such a bad mood about the whole thing.  “What, Cas?”

                “I would like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” he replied matter-of-factly.  “If my grace becomes dormant, I should be able to taste the food, not the molecules.  I liked those sandwiches when I was mortal.”  His blue eyes were wide open, without any pretense.  “I miss how food tastes.”     

                Catherine turned to Dean and Sam.  “You two have to fill me in about some of your past,” she exclaimed, handing the knife to Sam.  “I’ll go make the sandwich, then we’ll start things up with the sigil.  We need to get a timer and record how long his grace is on the fritz.”  She walked to the kitchen, shaking her head.  This day had gotten very weird, very fast.  As she left the room, she could hear Dean grumbling.  That was another mystery she needed to solve; why was Dean the one who needed to complete this task for the angels, and why did it anger him so much?  When she got Sam alone, she’d have to ask him, since Dean wasn’t going to tell her. 

                She whipped together a sandwich, stuck it on a plate, grabbed a glass of milk, and returned to the room.  Sam had drawn the sigil, and was holding a piece of cloth against the cut on his palm, ready to proceed.  Dean had his phone out, ready to time how long the sigil’s effects would last.  Cas was standing across the room, away from them, just for safety, since they didn’t know how this would really work.  Catherine laid the food on the table and moved to sit beside Dean, squeezing his leg as she sat down. 

                Sam spoke.  “Everybody ready?”  They all nodded.  “Let’s do this,” he said, and he pressed his palm to the wall. 


	12. Chapter 12

                The instant Sam’s hand touched the sigil, Castiel cried out.  It was a short, sharp cry – the kind a person would make when they stubbed their toe or bumped their elbow – but it was so surprising, coming from an angel, that Catherine flinched.  Cas staggered, reaching for the back of a chair to hold on to, and Dean rushed forward to steady him. 

                “No,” he grunted, with some effort.  “The timer.”

                Dean started the timer as Cas regained his footing.  “Are you alright, Cas?”  Sam’s voice was full of concern.

                “I believe so,” he replied.  “But I feel…” He paused, looking for the right words.  “Strange.”

                “Mortal?” Catherine asked. 

                “I do not know,” he answered, his blue eyes confused.  “I am uncomfortable.”

                Dean laid the timer on the table and crossed the room.  “Cas,” he said, “you need to do something that requires your grace.  We need to know if you have the juice to fight us off.”  

                Cas simply stood there, looking at them.  “What should I do?”

                Sam shrugged.  “Try to zap yourself somewhere,” he suggested.  “Or listen in for angel radio.”

                Cas blinked at him, still standing by the chair, one hand on its back.  After a long moment, he spoke again.  “I cannot.”

                The three hunters breathed a sigh of relief, simultaneously.  “Well,” said Catherine, “If we’re going after Hadraniel, this gives us a way to handle him.”  She saw Dean’s eyebrows shoot up, and she knew he was already thinking that she wouldn’t be involved.  She just barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes at him.  He was already in a bad mood because of Castiel’s request; she didn’t think it would benefit anyone if she made him angrier.

                “We need to test physical strength.”  Sam stated his point while walking toward Cas.  “Cas, are you over the initial shock?  Can you try to fight one of us?”

                Cas nodded.  “I will try not to injure you,” he said calmly. 

                Dean snickered.  “You want to take this one, Sammy?”  Sam cast a glance at him, smirking, and nodded. 

                “Okay, Cas.  Let’s go.”  Sam raised his hands like a boxer, ready to spar.  Cas simply stood there.  “Cas?  You going to fight?”

                “Go ahead, Sam,” the angel said.  “I am prepared.”

                Sam looked at Dean and Catherine.  Dean shrugged.  Catherine spoke up.  “I have a bad feeling about this, Cas.  Maybe you want to get into a fighting stance?  Raise your hands, prepare to block?”

                “Unnecessary,” Cas replied.  “Even without my grace, I am a formidable opponent who - ”

                There was a smacking sound of flesh on flesh as Sam’s right fist connected with Cas’ jawbone. He lurched backwards, reeling from the impact.  Sam was grinning, and Catherine could tell he hadn’t put much force into the blow.  Cas leaned heavily on the wall.  “You want to try to defend yourself, formidable opponent?” Sam teased him, stepping closer.  “We need to see your speed and strength, Cas.  We need to know if there are angel abilities left after using this sigil.”

                Cas squared his shoulders, and this time, he raised his fists.  “Alright Sam,” he said, his low voice almost a growl.  “I will do it your way.”   He stepped into Sam, using his body weight to throw a punch.  It was a solid punch, but Sam parried it easily, stepping aside while delivering a jab to Cas’ ribs.  He made a sound when Sam’s fist connected, but kept going.  He tried to strike again, this time nearly making contact, but Sam was more experienced in this kind of fighting.  He blocked Cas’ hand and retaliated with a solid punch that found the angel’s nose.  Blood spurted from it, and Cas’ hands shot to his face. 

  
                “Okay, point proven,” Catherine stepped in.  “Cas is definitely completely free of grace right now.  Sam, go get him a towel and some ice, maybe?”  Sam and Dean were both grinning, and she realized they were enjoying seeing their friend without his powers.  “You two are having too much fun with this,” she chided them.

                “Oh no, we’re not,” Dean replied.  “We should have challenged him to a race.  See how he likes it when we get somewhere before him, since he can’t poof himself magically to the end point.”

                Sam returned then with the towel and ice, which he handed to Cas.  Cas glared at him over his bloody nose.  “Sorry Cas.  When your grace comes back, it’ll all heal.”  Sam grinned.  “You’re slower when you’re not all full of angel power.”  He winked at Catherine. 

                “This isn’t funny, Sam,” Cas complained.

                “Pretty sure it is,” Dean chuckled. 

                “Come on, Cas,” she reached out a hand and put it on the middle of his back, guiding him to a chair.  “Sit down and let me see your nose.  It’ll stop in a minute or two, and then you can have your PB&J.”  Cas complied, and when she wiped the blood from his face she could see it had nearly stopped.  “Here, hold the ice against it for a little bit,” she told him. 

                “Don’t baby him, Cath,” Dean said.  “He’s been human before.  He knows what it’s like.” 

                She turned to Cas.  “You were human?” 

                “Yes,” his gravelly voice was serious.  “Metatron stole my grace and I had to live as a human for a while.”

                “Who’s…” she started to ask, but then decided that was another story for another time.  “Nevermind.  How did you like being human?”

                “It was trying,” Cas replied.  “Humans must deal with many indignities that angels do not.  Showering, going to the bathroom, working for money, having to eat… It took a long time to learn how to do those things.”  He paused.  “I did enjoy many things, but I was grateful to find my grace again.”

                Catherine nodded.  “What was the best thing about being human?”  She was trying to keep him distracted, so that he would keep this ice against his face for a few minutes longer, because she could already see that it was swelling.

                “I very much enjoyed food.  When angels eat it, we can feel and taste each molecule, and it is not pleasant.  Humans feel things so differently, so simply, that food is better for them.  And other feelings too, were better as humans.  Laughter, love, desire… I remember all of those things feeling much more powerful when I was human.”  His eyes were reflective.

                “Desire?”  She knew she shouldn’t ask, she should put it on the back burner, like the Metatron thing, but she couldn’t help herself.

                “Yes,” he said.  “I had sex with women when I was human.  It was enjoyable, very much so, and I could see why the pizza man wanted to deliver his pizza to the naked woman so badly.”  Catherine heard Dean’s snort of laughter, but she ignored him.  “Angels do not feel desire in the ways that humans do, and that is unfortunate.”

                Catherine smiled at him.  “I will agree with you there.”  She reached up to pull down the ice pack, checking his nose.  The bleeding had stopped.  “I think you’re okay to eat your sandwich.  In fact, you probably should – who knows when this will wear off.  Dean, what’s the time?”

                He checked the timer on his phone.   “Eight minutes so far.”

                “We can work with that,” Sam said.  “We just need a plan.”

                Cas bit into his sandwich.  He sighed in pleasure.  The three of them stared at him, surprised to hear such a human sound come from him.  “It is wonderful, just like I remembered,” he said, happily taking another bite.  “No taste of molecules at all.”  He wolfed down the rest of the sandwich, then stood up.  “I’m going to make another one,” he informed them.

                “Eat whatever you want, Cas,” Sam said.  “But Dean and the timer are going with you.  We need to know when your grace returns.”  Dean looked irritated, but still followed Cas to the kitchen with his phone. 

                When they were out of the room, Catherine moved closer to Sam.  “Hey,” she said quietly.  “There’s something going on here that I don’t know about. When Cas showed up, he said Dean was the best person to retrieve the angel, and that he was ‘uniquely qualified’ for it.  When I asked Dean what that meant, he said something about past life experience and shut down on me.  What’s going on here?”

                Sam’s face was guarded, and he spoke slowly, choosing words carefully.  “I’m not sure I should be the one to explain all of this,” he said.  “It’s Dean’s life we’re talking about.  But I know he doesn’t like to talk about it, so I’ll tell you the basics.  Dean’s been to hell before.”  He paused, giving her time to absorb his words.  “He died, a few years back, and he’d made a deal with a demon, so he went to Hell when he died.  Castiel brought him back.  That’s how we met Cas.  But Dean remembers it all, and it changed him.  He knows how Hell can be.”  Sam stopped for another moment, thinking.  “The other thing that gives Dean an advantage is that he was a demon for a while.” 

                Catherine narrowed her eyes.  “He was possessed by a demon, you mean?”

                “No,” Sam said.  “He was a demon.  He, uh, died while he carried the Mark of Cain. And the Mark brought him back, because the bearer of the Mark can’t die, but he came back as a demon.  He was actually a Knight of Hell, and he spent all his time with Crowley, so he knows more about Hell than any of us.”

                “Are you screwing with me, Sam?” she asked him.  “Because you’re telling me Dean’s died twice, and been brought back twice.  And that he was a demon.  And that he carried one of the world’s most powerful curses.”

                Sam spoke quietly.  “I’m telling you the truth.”

                “Holy shit,” she said.  “And that all has been… taken care of?”

                “You can cure a demon,” Sam told her.  “I can teach you how.  I cured Dean.  And the Mark was removed.”

                “How?”  Catherine was somewhere between terrified and curious.

                “That’s a very long story.  We don’t have time right now.”  Sam shut down her question this time, unwilling to tell her any more.

                “So Dean’s been dead before,” she mused.  “That’s a new one.”

                Sam smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.  “We both have,” he admitted.  “The demon deal that landed Dean in Hell was to bring me back after I’d been killed.  But I was only dead a short time.  Dean was gone for months.”

                She shook her head, as if trying to shake her thoughts into place.  “No wonder he didn’t want to tell me.” 

                “Yeah,” Sam agreed.  “He doesn’t talk about it.  Dean’s not big on sharing his feelings and stuff like that.”

                “I noticed,” Catherine said.  “I don’t much blame him,” she went on.  “That’s seriously heavy stuff.”  Sam nodded, and she could tell that he was thinking about what he’d told her.  “Sam,” she reached out and touched his arm, bringing him back to the present.  “When this is over, I’d like to hear more about your lives.” Sam looked at her carefully, not knowing where she was going with this.  “I have a feeling there’s an awful lot to learn about you and Dean.” 

                Before Sam could answer, Cas came back, carrying a plate with two sandwiches, a bag of chips, and a smaller plate with a piece of pie.  Dean was behind him, also carrying a plate with pie, and a six pack of beer.  They came to sit with Catherine and Sam.  Dean handed a beer to Sam, then to Catherine, and finally, to Cas, before taking one for himself.  She smiled as she popped the cap, and she reached beneath the table to squeeze his thigh.  He caught her hand and held it for a moment, before releasing it to open his own beer.

                As Cas ate, they talked about ways to retrieve Hadraniel from Hell.  They could all attack together, but as soon as anyone used the sigil, Cas would be mortal and would require some protection.  When he was mortal, he was a much easier target for demons, and they would love to catch, torture, and kill him.  To use the sigil, Cas would have to be somewhere else, or they’d risk making him a liability.  Also, Dean was vehement that Catherine and Sam stay out of Hell.  He didn’t want anyone to go in but himself, which meant all of the responsibility for getting Hadraniel out would be placed on his shoulders.  Sam thought that was totally stupid; his rule of thumb seemed to be that they should stick together. 

                Catherine listened to them argue, weighing in from time to time, while they waited for Cas to get his grace back.  Sam and Dean were still arguing about Dean going in alone when the idea struck her.  “She doesn’t even know Crowley, Sam,” Dean pointed out angrily.  “Catherine shouldn’t even be involved!”

                She leaned forward and grabbed his arm.  “You’re right,” she said, and Dean looked at her surprised.  “Oh, not about me staying out of it.  That’s not going to happen.  But I don’t know Crowley.  And he doesn’t know me.”  She looked at Sam for a minute, and then turned back to Dean.  “We can use that.”

                “How is that helpful?”  Dean was too angry to really give in yet, but she knew he’d come around, especially since her idea would keep her out of Hell.

                “We could split into two teams,” she suggested.  “I could summon Crowley, catch him in a devil’s trap, and keep him busy for a while.  He won’t know that it has anything to do with you two.  Cas can be my backup, since he can’t really help with extracting the angel right away.”  Dean’s eyebrows went up at this.  “You two can go into Hell and grab Hadraniel, using the sigil.  Once he’s outside of Hell, Cas can zap himself to wherever you are, then take Hadraniel to Heaven.”

                “That’s not a bad idea.”  Sam was thinking it through.  Dean, on the other hand, sat sullenly.  Catherine knew this whole situation made him unhappy, but he could probably see her logic. 

                Castiel gave his opinion then.  “I can have a few of the other angels ready to receive Hadraniel,” he offered.  “They will be glad to have him back.”

                “Cas, will they listen to the poor guy now, and give him a chance to be happy?” Catherine didn’t want to return him to Heaven if they were going to make him miserable.

                Cas seemed to think about that.  “I believe so,” he said.  “They need him to continue as the gatekeeper, and now that they know to what lengths he is willing to go, I believe they will concede to some of his wishes.  He will not be given an extended break from his task, but they may allow him to train a successor and have some time off to spend with his human.”

                “We’ll need to bring the human with us when we pull Hadraniel from Hell,” Sam pointed out.  “Otherwise we’re leaving Crowley with leverage.”

                Dean nodded.  “We can do that.”

                Catherine looked at him as she asked her next question.  “Do you know where they’ll be, Dean?” 

                His eyes met hers, and they were so green and full of emotion that she almost had to look away.  She could tell that he knew Sam had told her what happened.  “Yeah,” he spoke softly.  “I know where to look.”  He dropped his eyes from hers, and the group was silent.

                The silence was broken with a grunt from Cas.  He was chewing on the last bites of his food, but his face had twisted in disgust.  “Molecules,” he said.  Dean’s hand flashed out to stop the timer.  “My grace is back.”  He laid the remaining food back on the plate and pushed it away with a sigh. 

                “Twenty-seven minutes,” Dean told them.  “It should be enough.”

                “Alright then,” Sam said, pushing his chair back and standing up.  “We have a plan. Let’s get things ready.  I’ll get the stuff for the ritual.”  He left the room quickly.

                Cas nodded at them.  “I will go speak to the angels and reassure them.”  He disappeared in an instant, leaving Catherine and Dean alone in the room. 

                Dean shoved back his chair and spoke to Catherine.  He didn’t really look at her.  “I’ll go get the weapons we’ll need.  I’ll get you an angel blade to take.”  He left the room.

                Catherine sat for a moment, giving Dean the space she knew he needed.  In a few minutes, she’d catch up with him and let him know she was okay with all of this.  But for now, she figured it was best to give him a little bit of time to let his confused feelings settle.  He had to be feeling angry and scared and guilty, and that was just the tip of the iceberg.  Her job now was to summon a demon – and not just any demon.  The king of Hell.  She needed to get ready, to review the ritual, and to get dressed for a hunt.   She stood up, stretching her body, before heading off to get in her hunting gear.  Once that was done, she’d go find Dean and make sure he was okay.  It was strange to care so much about him already.  They’d only been together for a few weeks, but it felt like longer.  Hunter’s years were like dog years; they lived such short, intense lives that every moment felt like more time than it was.   And right now she was wrapped up in Dean’s life so completely that she knew she’d feel empty if she walked out the door.   She didn’t plan to do that, but for the moment, she was a little bit amazed that she was about to take on the king of Hell with the help of an angel.  Before she’d met Sam and Dean, she wouldn’t have even considered it.  But now, with them, she was becoming more daring and skilled, and she knew that was a reflection of them.  She smiled to herself as she walked down the hall, happy that she’d become part of this weird little world.

                _Time to get ready for the big show_ , she thought.   


	13. Chapter 13

                In the room she shared with Dean, Catherine was getting ready to summon a serious demon.  She changed into her hunting gear – jeans, her boots with the knife sheath, a tank top and a plaid button down, a leather belt that held two short blades.  She checked her weapons, tucking extra ammo into her jacket’s pocket, and readying her handgun.  The top three bullets in the clip had devil’s traps carved into them; she wasn’t planning to shoot the King of Hell, but if worse came to worse, she would do just that.  She’d tuck that into her belt, at the back, when the time came.  She was already wearing her silver chain, dangling between her breasts.  She twisted her hair into a braid, carefully tying the end, so that it would be out of her way.  She checked her gear bag for holy water, making sure the flask she carried was full.  She also had two cans of spray paint, ready to make the trap she’d need to hold Crowley.  She was ready, more or less.

                “Hey.”  Dean was behind her, leaning in the doorframe.  He was holding an angel blade in his hands.  “Take this with you.  If you have to, kill Crowley.  Don’t let him get anywhere near you.”

                “If it comes to that, I will,” she promised, taking the blade he offered.  “But I gather he’s sort of friendly with you guys, somehow, so it’ll be a last resort.”

                Dean shrugged.  “We’ve worked with him.  He’s trustworthy as long as it benefits him to be trusted.  Once you’re not useful to him anymore, he’ll sell you out fast,” Dean told her.  He reached for her gun, checking the mechanism and the clip.  “When’s the last time you cleaned this?”

                “Yesterday, Dean,” she told him.  He snapped the pieces back into place.  “It’s fine.  I already checked it.”

                He laid the gun down, then looked in her gear bag.  Catherine let him look, because she knew it wasn’t really about checking up on her.  Dean needed to be prepared, needed to know they were ready, and for him, a big part of that was taking care of his people as much as possible.  She suspected he would do the same checks with Sam before they left.  The main reason he was checking up on her was because he was uncomfortable with this whole thing, with being forced into Hell this way, and he needed to stay busy to keep from thinking too much.  Otherwise, she figured, his thoughts would be overwhelming.

                “Dean,” she said, reaching for his hand.  “I’m ready.  I just need to get the summoning ritual stuff from Sam, and I’m good to go.”  He didn’t say anything.  “Are you ready?”

                “Yeah,” he responded gruffly.  “Angel blade, demon knife, holy water, gun.  The basic go-to-hell kit.”

                Dean was silent then.  Catherine reached for his hand, grasping it softly, pulling him closer to her.  As he turned to face her, she used her other hand to grab his belt, pulling his body close to hers.  She lifted her face up, standing on her toes, to place a kiss on the bare skin of his neck.  She felt his body, taut with worry, and she kissed him again, next to the first kiss.  It was like plucking a string on a guitar, tension making his body sing for her, and he sighed, just a little, as she kissed a line up his neck, along his jawline, using her tongue and teeth and lips to relax him.  Finally he turned his face down to hers, meeting her, returning her kisses.  She slid her hands beneath his shirt, around to his back, and kneaded the muscles there.  Dean’s mouth was hot, needy and wanting, and he kissed with ferocity.  Within a minute she was gasping for air, drowning in his mouth.  He moved down her neck then, bending to kiss and suck and lick.

                “We -  ah… oh!” He nipped her skin as she tried to speak.  “We have a few minutes before we need to meet the others,” she told him, bringing her hands around to his front, running them up his chest beneath his shirt.  She loved the feel of his skin under her hands.  When she’d kissed him a few minutes before, she’d merely meant to relax him, to give him some focus, but now she was so turned on that she needed resolution. 

                “Yeah?” Dean’s voice was a question and a statement all at once.  “But you’re all dressed and ready,” he whispered into her ear, before catching her earlobe between his teeth.  “We don’t have time for you to take off your boots and your clothes.”  There was a challenge in his words.

                Catherine slid her hand down, yanking at his belt buckle, reaching inside his pants to grab his erection.  It was hot and heavy in her hand, and he was so ready.  “Who said anything about getting undressed?” She whispered, stroking him with one hand while popping her own belt with her other.  “Close the door,” she told him, releasing his cock. 

                Dean turned and crossed the room, shutting the door quickly, turning back to find Catherine with her pants lowered to her thighs and her hands on the bed.  “Get a condom, Dean,” she told him, looking back at him over her shoulder.  She heard his breathing quicken as he looked at her, exposed and wet already, waiting for him.  “We’ll have to be quick,” she said quietly. 

                “Oh babe,” he moved behind her, running his hand up her back beneath her shirt.  “I don’t think that’ll be a problem for me.  Just seeing you like this is almost enough.”  
                She giggled.  He smirked at her and tore open the package, rolling the condom over himself.  He slid one hand down through her wetness, working his fingers over her clit for a moment, bringing a sigh from her.  “Spread your legs?” he asked her.

                “No,” she said.  “This is as far as I can go without taking off my pants.” She could feel him pressing against her, leaning in to touch her skin.  “It’ll be so tight for you, Dean,” she spoke quietly, arching her back to rub against him. 

                He groaned and lined up, pushing his tip against her.  She pushed back, just a little, forcing him inside faster than he expected, and he exhaled sharply, pulsing against her.  He pushed in then, one long, slow, torturous slide, and she nearly cried out in pleasure.  Tight for him, tight for her.  “Fuck me, Dean,” she breathed, lowering her upper body to her elbows, changing the angle so he’d get her sweet spot with each thrust. 

                His hands gripped her hips, tight fingers holding her steady, as he began to push and pull, setting a fast pace from the start.  She knew she wouldn’t need long, and she didn’t think he would either.  “Oh, Cath,” he said softly.  “My god, you’re so hot.”  He was speeding up already, thrusting as deeply as possible between her legs, grinding his body against hers.  “This is… You’re…” Dean didn’t finish any of his sentences with words, just with quiet grunts and exhalations and the sound of skin on skin.  His length was perfect for her in this position; she let out short little gasps each time his cock sank in all the way, hitting the right places to make her want to scream in pleasure. 

                She felt a shift in him, an edge to his movements, and she knew he was close.  He let go of her hip, reaching beneath her to circle her clit with his fingers, letting them dance over her pleasure button, still thrusting and moving inside her.  For her part, it was taking all Catherine’s effort not to fall over, not to let her legs turn to liquid from the feelings that racked her body.  “Dean,” she moaned, quietly.  “Oh, Dean.”  That was all she could manage before she came, face falling into the mattress, held in place by Dean’s hands on her body, breath sharp and fast and almost a whine of pleasure.  Her body tightened and squeezed, and Dean felt it, felt it all, and he came too, plunging into her again and again, stroking through the squeeze of her pleasure and the release of his own.  He finally stilled, hand on her hip, another on her warm back.

                “Catherine.” His voice was ragged.  “The things you do to me.”

                “Right back at ya, babe,” she said weakly, laughing.  “Give me a minute to recover, okay?” 

                Dean laughed too, and the sound made her heart lighten.  _There he is_ , she thought.  His laughter was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds.  They would get through this thing, and he would be alright; she knew it now.  Whatever darkness this hunt brought out in him, Dean would get through it. 

                They caught their breath and cleaned themselves up quickly, buttoning and zippering their clothes.  This time when she pulled on her jacket and picked up her gear, Dean smiled at her, taking her hand in his.  She checked her hair, making sure she didn’t look like she’d just been bent over the bed for a quickie, smiling at Dean when she realized they were both a little flushed.  Together they walked toward the main room to meet the others. 

                Sam was waiting there, feet up on the table, his gear bag and the summoning materials ready.  He grinned at them as they entered the room.  Cas stood by the shelves, trench coat on, face blank.  “Ready to go?” Sam asked, looking from Catherine to Dean, no doubt noticing the change in Dean’s posture and attitude.

                He squeezed Catherine’s hand.  “Yeah,” he responded.  “Let’s go get ourselves an angel and a demon.”  


	14. Chapter 14

                Outside the bunker, it was time to split up.  Catherine threw her gear in her Jeep, taking the stuff from Sam to summon Crowley.  “Remember,” Sam cautioned her, “don’t tell him you’re with us.  If he thinks we’ve got anything to do with you summoning him, he’ll figure out what we’re doing.”

                Catherine nodded, trying to look confident.  Truthfully, she was freaking out a little, but that was par for the course, she figured.  She’d never been involved in something this huge before.  She knew she could do it – she had summoned demons before - but facing down the King of Hell was intense.  “I’ll handle it,” she promised.  “And Cas will be nearby if things go south.”

                “Yeah, but Cas, man, you need to stay hidden unless things are desperate,” Dean pointed out.  “If Crowley sees you, he’ll know.  It’s better if Catherine can keep the act up, let him think she’s summoned him to ask questions.”

                “I will be careful, Dean,” Cas replied.

                “But you need to be able to get in there fast if things go bad.”  Dean gestured toward Catherine, and his discomfort was almost palpable.  “She shouldn’t be doing this alone, guys.  Sam, you and Cas should - ”

                Catherine cut him off.  “Dean, you’re not going into Hell alone.  We’ve been over this.  Besides, like you said, it’s better if Crowley doesn’t know that I’m connected to you guys.  It’ll give you more time to get to Hadraniel before he gets suspicious.  I can do this.”

                Dean huffed at her, but he stopped trying to change the plans.  He dropped his gear into the trunk of the Impala, then leaned against the car, arms crossed.  “Alright, one more time.  Go over it.”

                “I drive three towns over with Cas and find an empty building.  Set up to summon Crowley.  When it’s done and he’s in the devil’s trap, I text you.  You and Sam enter Hell, use the sigil to get the angel, and you’ll text me when you’re out.  I keep Crowley there until you tell me to release him.”

                “Cas?”  Sam turned to him next.

                “I hide near the trap, but stay out of sight.  When you send me a message, I come meet you and retrieve Hadraniel.”  Cas was all business. 

                “Right,” Dean agreed. 

                “Make sure you get him in that trap as fast as possible, Catherine,” Sam warned.  “He’ll get the upper hand pretty quickly if you don’t.”

                “Got it,” she agreed.  “How are you guys going to get in and out of Hell?”

                Dean and Sam exchanged a look.  “Dean’ll get us in,” Sam told her.  “He knows where to go.”  Dean wouldn’t look at her.  He stared at his feet, avoiding eye contact with anyone. 

                “Just…” she paused, wanting to say something meaningful, but not finding the words.  “Be safe, okay?”

                Sam smiled at her, nodding.  “We will.”  He reached out and pulled her in for a quick hug, then walked around to the passenger side of the car.  “Let’s get going.”

                Dean stepped toward her then, looking up to find her eyes on him.  “We’ll be fine,” he said, voice rough.  “Don’t take any risks with Crowley.  Keep your gun and the angel blade ready.  You shouldn’t have to kill Crowley.  We’ve worked with him a bunch of times, and for a demon, he’s half decent.  But he’s clever, and he’ll find ways to manipulate you to get any advantage that he can.  Don’t agree to anything he says.”  She nodded.  Dean reached out for her, pulling her close.  He wrapped her in his arms for a moment, tucking her beneath his chin.  “I know you’re a hunter, and I know you’re good – hell, you beat the crap out of Sammy – but I’ll worry about you.”  He released her from his arms, placing a kiss on her forehead, gently. 

                “Same here,” she said, grabbing his hand and squeezing it as they let go of each other.  “But this won’t take long.”  She walked to her Jeep, opening the door to step inside.  Castiel had already gotten in the passenger side.  “Hey,” she called to Dean.  He paused, one foot in the car.  “See you soon.”

                “Yeah, sweetheart,” he said.  “Soon.” 

                The Impala’s engine roared to life, and the hunt was on.

 

               

                Catherine drove quickly, finding a deserted house on the edge of town for her site.  She parked the Jeep out of sight, and they carried the gear inside to set up.  The living room was perfect; there was old carpeting on the floor, and she quickly ripped it up to paint a devil’s trap, letting it dry before she put the carpet back in place.  She set up the materials for summoning ritual on the sideboard, putting herself near a door so that she could escape if needed.  With any luck, Crowley would appear in the other doorway, and when he walked toward her to talk, he’d be stuck in the trap.  If that didn’t work, she had a bullet in the chamber that had been carved with a devil’s trap.  Sam had already texted her to say that they were in position.  She was as prepared as possible.

                “Cas?”  The angel had wandered off while she prepared.  “I’m just about ready.”  He appeared instantly, startling her.

                “I am here, Catherine.”  He scanned the room as he spoke.  “If I am too close, Crowley will sense my presence.  I will be nearby and I will listen.  If you need me, just say my name and I will be here immediately.”

                “Okay.”  She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.  “Hey Cas, any advice before I do this?”

                He looked at her for a moment, head tilted to one side, his blue eyes steady.  “Yes.  Do not let Crowley see that you are afraid.  He’s very confident, and if he senses fear he will use that to his advantage.”

                She nodded.  “Got it.”  She straightened her spine, shook out her nerves, and faced Cas with a brilliant smile.  “I’ll be the most confident, capable hunter he’s ever seen.”  Cas nodded approvingly.  “Alright, angel of the lord, time for you to disappear.”  He was gone before she could say anything else.

                Alone, Catherine took a moment to do final preparations.  She took off her jacket, laying it on the sideboard, using it to hide the angel blade.  She wanted that close at hand, but she didn’t want Crowley to see it.  She sent a quick text to Sam, saying she was about to start, and then she took her place by the table.  She’d already drawn the sigil and put the ingredients in the bowl, so she lit the candles, quickly, and then pulled her silver knife from her boot.  She sliced her palm, spilling blood into the bowl.  Another match, lit and dropped into the bowl.  She muttered the Latin quickly, “...Et ad congregandum... eos coram me,” and slid her knife back into its sheath.  Wrapping her hand in a bandana, she turned toward the door, waiting. 

                He didn’t keep her waiting long.  Footsteps in the other room alerted her to his presence, and there he was, in the doorway.  He was dressed in black, like a modern businessman, and Catherine was surprised at how average he looked.  He didn’t look evil, which she’d kind of expected from the king of Hell.  He looked at her, one eyebrow raised, for a long moment, before ambling forward slowly. 

                “Hello darling,” he said, in an accent that she would ordinarily have found extremely sexy. “I believe you called?”  He smiled, a predatory expression, and she decided to change her plan.  She’d seen that look before, on plenty of men’s faces, and she knew she could use it to her advantage. 

                She smiled, giving him her best ‘pretty and sweet’ face, the one that she used to flirt with men for information from time to time.  “Are you the king of Hell?” Catherine’s voice was light, teasing.  “I hear you are a very powerful demon, and I want to make a deal.”  She looked up at him from under her lashes.

                The smile was still on his face.  “I am indeed,” he responded.  “And what can I do for you?”  He walked forward, coming closer to her, and she nearly had him in her trap.  His eyes slid over her body, assessing her, taking her measure.  “What do you want so badly that you summoned the king of Hell?”

                _Just a little closer_ , she thought to herself.   She needed him to be securely inside the devil’s trap before Sam and Dean could enter Hell.  Five feet forward and he’d be locked down.  If she could keep him coming forward, keep him talking, she’d get it done. 

                “Are you really the king of Hell?”

                “If I wasn’t, that little ritual you did would have summoned someone else altogether,” he answered.  Cas was right; this guy was confident.  “Tell me,” he said, walking toward her, “did you learn what the ritual meant, or did you just say the words and hope for the best?”  He stepped further onto the carpet – one step, another – almost there.

                “Well…” she trailed off, letting him advance.  “I mean, the guy who told me about it seemed real smart,” she said.  She needed him to take two more steps, to get fully inside the trap, so she kept playing dumb.  “He told me it would work, but that I didn’t need to know how it worked. He said it would summon a powerful demon who could give me everything I want.”  She looked at him with unconcealed desire in her eyes.

                Another step.  “Well, love,” he said, the pitch of his voice dropping a little, “let’s negotiate.  I’m certain we can work something out.”  Another step.  He was inside the trap.  And then he spoke again.  “I can give you everything you want, as long as you give me what I want.” 

                She walked toward him then, stepping towards the circle, but not entering it.  “But you’ve already given me what I want, your highness,” she told him, still using the sticky-sweet voice she’d adopted to flirt with him.  “I want you, here…” she waited for a second.  “… trapped with me.”

                Crowley’s whole demeanor shifted then.  His eyes narrowed to slits, and he turned his back on her, moving to walk out of the room.  She knew he couldn’t leave, but as he couldn’t see the trap, he didn’t know that yet.  “You don’t know who you’re messing with,” he said over his shoulder.  “You’re in over your head.”

                Catherine thought it was time to let him know who she really was.  She drew one of the short knives from her belt, and with a quick movement, flung it so that it sailed just past Crowley’s head, whizzing by his cheek, and embedding itself in the wooden doorframe beyond them.  He stopped, turning to her.  “Oh, I know more than enough, Crowley,” she told him, dropping the cute little girl act.  “I know all about you, and I know you’re not going anywhere.”

                He lifted his hand to use his demon powers, to flick her across the room, only to find that he was totally impotent.  He raised his eyebrows at her, but she didn’t react.  She pulled her phone from her pocket, pushed a few buttons to send her message, then put it away.  He looked down at the carpet, then back at her.  She nodded.  “Sorry, Crowley, but we need to have a chat, and I need to know that you aren’t going to try to kill me.”

                He was looking at her differently now.  The predatory look was gone, replaced by something that was between anger and respect.  “You tricked me,” he said, in a voice that leaned toward incredulous.

                “I did,” she agreed.  “And you really shouldn’t have fallen for it.  The king of Hell, tricked by a girl batting her eyelashes at him?” She made a sound of disappointment.  “What would the lesser demons say if they knew that?”

                He raised his eyebrows again.  “I suspect that they would have fallen for it too, love,” he answered, “if you looked at them the way you looked at me.” 

                She smirked at him.  “I can’t deny it,” she said.  “The sweet-and-innocent routine has its advantages in my line of work.” 

                “You’re a hunter,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. 

                “Yep.”

  
                “And you’re here to kill me.”

                “No,” she told him, “although I will if I have to.  I just need a little bit of your time, and a little conversation, and then I’ll let you out.”

                “And what will keep me from killing you then?” 

                She smiled at him then, and this time, it was her who wore the predatory smile.  She reached beneath her coat, picking up the angel blade, and twirled it lightly between her fingers.  “Oh, Crowley… you don’t want to start something that I’ll have to finish.”  She paused.  “Besides, this is a friendly meeting.  No one needs to get hurt.  Nothing bad has to happen.  I just want to talk to you, like I said.”

                “And what, pray tell, do you want to talk about?”  Crowley was annoyed, but there was also curiosity in his voice. 

                She sat down in the chair that she’d placed by the table, and kicked her feet up onto its surface.  She let the angel blade rest in her lap.  The topic of her chat with Crowley had been a heated debate back at the bunker.  She needed something to ask him about that would take a while for him to explain, but it also needed to be something that it wouldn’t be odd for a hunter to be asking.  She needed to stay away from topics that might tip him off to her true purpose – so nothing that would hint that she knew the Winchesters, nothing about the gates, nothing about Hadraniel.  After a long discussion, it was decided that the best course of action was for her to ask about his cache of supernatural items.  The boys had no idea what Crowley might have secreted away, but they thought he probably had a collection of things worth exploring.  Since it was uncharted territory, it should kill the requisite time.  And at the end, the figured Catherine could simply tell Crowley he didn’t have what she wanted, which would be a reasonable excuse to let him go. 

                “Well,” she began, trying to keep her voice calm and reasonable, “I believe you are in possession of something that I’d like to have.”

                “Oh, you think so?”  His voice was even, but she could see his irritation rising.

                “Oh, I know so,” she replied.  “Word around town is that you have quite the collection of, shall we say, precious and rare objects.”

                He raised an eyebrow at her.  “Word around town?”

                She shrugged, raising an open palm as she spoke, the gesture casual.  “Well, to be more accurate, word that terrified demons have screamed before I exorcised or killed them.”  Now he was definitely interested.  “Oh come on, Crowley, you said it yourself – I’m a hunter.  I’ve dispatched more than a few of your lackeys when their bad behaviour made them stand out in the crowd.”  She picked the angel blade, spinning it in her fingers again.  “You wouldn’t believe what a demon will say in order to avoid being sent back to hell.”

                “Oh,” Crowley said, narrowing his eyes at her again.  “I know what a little torture can do.  When I get out of this trap, you’ll know as well.”

                She lowered her feet from the table, standing up.  She placed the angel blade on the sideboard again.  “Hey now,” she protested, “that’s not nice.  I’m trying to be perfectly civil, and here you are, threatening to torture me.  Have I done anything to hurt you?  No.  Yes, you’re in a devil’s trap, but that’s just to put us on equal footing.  Have I said any of the words that will make your demon soul ache in that meat suit?  Have I started an exorcism?  Have I even thrown holy water on you?” She paused, smiling at him.  “Yes, I killed some of your minions.  That’s my job.  They were caught breaking the rules, so I doled out punishment.  You’re not here for the same reason, although I’m sure I could find out which rules you’ve broken, Crowley.  Did I let you know I’m perfectly capable of running that angel blade through your body to finish you off?  Yes, but I also told you that I don’t plan to hurt you.  I just want to talk.”  Another pause.  “So can we lay off the threats and promises of torture, your highness?”

                Crowley glared at her.  He didn’t answer for a moment.  She knew he was thinking about it, debating which tactics would work best for him.  He exhaled, sharply, letting his annoyance show again, and then he spoke.  “Fine, my dear.  Let’s get to it.  I don’t have all day for idle chit chat.”

                “Excellent,” she replied, taking her seat again.  This time she leaned forward, elbows on her knees.  “Now, back to where we started.  I’m told you have a lovely treasure trove in your possession.  Is that correct?”

                He rolled his eyes.  “I’m afraid you’re going to have to be more specific,” he told her.  “What, exactly, are you trying to find?”

                She shook her head.  “No, I don’t think I want to tip my hand so early.  If you don’t have what I want, I don’t need you to realize that it’s out there and to go hunting for it.”

                This time, Crowley rolled his eyes.  “You do realize that I can’t tell you if I have something unless you bloody well tell me what it is?”

                “Patience, Crowley!” Catherine admonished.  “We’ve got time.  You do have a collection, yes?”

                “Yes, of course,” he answered, already exasperated.

                “And in that collection, do you have objects that can be classified as weapons?”

                “Yes.”

                “Interesting…” she paused, pretending to think.  “Are they weapons for killing humans? Demons?  Angels?”

                Crowley’s eyes narrowed again, but he didn’t answer.  She stood up, walking closer to him, but never crossing into the trap.  “Come on, man, we were just getting somewhere.”  She glanced at her watch, keeping an eye on the time.  Hopefully the guys were making progress, and they’d soon text her to get her out of this.  “Seriously, what weapons have you got in hiding?”

                “More than you could ever imagine,” he replied. 

                “Hmm,” she hummed.  “So, let’s say I’m looking for a demon killing blade.  Would you have one of those?”

                “And why would you need that, since you have an angel blade?”

                Catherine realized that she needed to be careful with her questions, so that it didn’t become obvious that she was stalling.  She tipped her head to the side, trying to look casual.  “I don’t need one,” she replied.  “I was thinking it might make a nice Christmas gift for my little cousin.”  She smiled at him.  “Maybe if we work something out you can throw in a blade like that, sort of like a bonus.”

                “This isn’t the home shopping network,” Crowley hissed.  “Get to the point.”

                She realized his patience was getting pretty thin, and while she knew he was safely contained in the devil’s trap, she didn’t see the need to poke the bear.  “Okay, okay.  Sorry.  I know you’re busy, what with the pits of Hell to oversee.  I’ll stop teasing.”  He raised an eyebrow at her.  “Look, truth be told, I’ve got angel trouble.”  
                Now he was interested again, watching her more carefully as she spoke.  She paced away from him, never turning her back, but putting some distance between them.  “You know that more and more, angels are coming to Earth, getting involved in human affairs.  I’ve heard the stories, and I’m sure you have as well.” 

                “Go on,” he said.  She had to admit, his accent was rather lovely. 

                “Well,” she kept talking, getting caught up in the fiction she was creating, “one of them has taken too much of an interest in my life.”  His eyebrow couldn’t go any higher, but at least it showed her that he was paying attention.  “This angel keeps showing up, threatening me.  I’m not interested in being nuked by an angel – have you seen what it looks like when they kill someone?”  She looked at Crowley, waiting for his answer.

                “All that holiness, burning right through you,” Crowley answered. 

                “Yeah,” she shuddered.  “I do not want to go that way.”

                “And you thought you would ask a demon for help?”  She could hear the skepticism in his voice.

                “Well, not just a demon.  You.  You’re plenty powerful,” she told him, “and I heard that you’d have the juice to help me.”

                “You think I’m going to help you,” he said, and she could hear the laughter just beneath the surface.

                “I think you’re willing to make a deal,” she said.  “Remember your lackeys?  The ones I killed?  Well, one or two of them talked a little too much, Crowley.  They said you’re sympathetic to hunters.”  Catherine knew this was a risk, a colossal one, since it meant referencing the Winchesters, but it was a calculated risk.  She needed something to give her leverage, and his past behaviour was the best she could find at the moment.  The clock was ticking.  She needed to keep Crowley talking, keep him from trying to escape, so the boys would have the time they needed.  She needed to keep herself talking, stay focussed on the job at hand, so that she wouldn’t worry about them.  She definitely had the easier job here; no one was trying to kill her, she was only facing one demon, and she didn’t have to kill anything.  Who knew what Sam and Dean were facing?

                Crowley seemed taken aback by her statement.  “They said what?”  He was close to yelling, and she figured it was mostly about the disloyal demons.

                “To be fair, I had done a fair bit of damage to them by that point,” she said.  “Really, you need better flunkies.  They cracked way too easily.”  She shook her head, as if disappointed. “But yeah, they said you’d worked with hunters before, and that you even had, like, hunter friends.  So it made sense to come to you for this.  You’ve got the power to give me what I need, and you are apparently willing to work with hunters.  I figure you’ve got something in your secret stash that will solve my problems, and in return, perhaps I can do something for you sometime.”

                Crowley rolled his eyes at her.  “You do realize you have an angel blade?  Just kill the angel with that.”

                “Obviously that’s an option, Crowley,” Catherine replied.  “But angels are fast, and I’m just a human.  I need something that gives me an edge.  I need something that will give me a fighting chance.  I need something that gives me insurance – that will keep him away.”

                “Let me get this straight,” he replied.  She waited for him to speak.  “You summon me, trap me, and now you want me to give you a weapon that can kill angels.  And you want me to do this because you think I’m - ” He paused, looking totally disgusted.  “ – sympathetic to hunters???”

                She looked directly at him, smiling.  “Yes,” she said. 

                “You must be completely delusional,” he told her.  “Absolutely, totally, utterly delusional.”

                “Whoa, big fella,” she replied.  “Don’t go overboard on the synonyms there.  I get your point.”

                He muttered to himself, under his breath.  She heard bits and pieces, like “stupid little girl” and “bloody Winchesters.”  Catherine checked her watch again, seeing that she still had time to kill before the sigil’s results wore off, so she still had to keep Crowley occupied.  She checked her phone, quickly, finding no messages yet.  This was taking longer than she’d hoped.  Dean had told her that if things went well, he thought they could get in and out in fifteen minutes.  Things must not be going well, since that time had passed and he hadn’t contacted her.  That meant she had to keep going.

                “What are you saying, your highness?” She threw in the title to make him happy.  She figured he was the type of demon overlord who enjoyed a little bowing and scraping.  

                “None of your bloody business,” he replied, sharply.

                “No, I heard some of that,” she said.  “I’ll let the name calling pass, since you’re mad at me.  I’m sure you’ll realize later that I’m not stupid, nor am I little.  But that other thing you’re mumbling about… what was that?”

                “Oh, nothing,” he said in a voice full of snide retribution.  “Just cursing you hunters, the whole bloody lot of you.”

                “I heard a name,” she kept digging.  Maybe she’d get a little info out of Crowley about the boys.  She was certainly curious to hear what he had to say about them.  “Did you say Winchester?”

                “Yes, I bloody said Winchester!” He was yelling now.  “Ever since I met those two, I’ve been plagued with the problems of hunters.  You lot are like locusts.  You do realize that hunters and demons are not meant to work together, do you not?  Why would I ever help you?  Those idiotic Winchesters keep coming with problems, and I did not help them out of the goodness of my heart, you twit.  I helped them because it served my interests, and in no way does it serve my interests to help you.”

                “Why did you help them?  Who are they?”  Catherine knew she needed to be careful here, but she couldn’t help asking. 

                Crowley was still angry, but he had stopped yelling quite so much.  “They’re hunters,” he snapped at her.  “Brothers.”

                “That’s it?” Catherine had been hoping for a little more information.

                “They’re a giant pain in my ass, much like you are,” Crowley elaborated. “They tend to show up at the worst possible time and get in the way.”

                “Oh really?” Her reply was casual, but she knew where she wanted to go with this conversation, now that it had started.  “You know, one of the demons I killed – the ones who said you worked with hunters – he said you had a buddy for a while, someone who used to be a hunter.  Would that be one of the Winchesters?”

                Crowley glared at her.  “Which demon, exactly, gave you all of this information?” He asked.  “I want to know who I need to disembowel when he returns from the lower echelons in a hundred years or so.”

                Catherine smiled.  “Oh, I promised him I wouldn’t tell, since he gave me such wonderful information,” she replied.  “But if you give me the information I want, I’ll give you the information you want,” she offered.  “We’ll get back to the angelic weapons in a minute.  Tell me about the Winchesters first.”

                Crowley had calmed himself a bit, and with this offer he rolled his eyes and started to talk.  “As I told you, they are hunters.  There are two of them, both equally annoying, and they tend to end up in awful predicaments quite regularly.”  He paused, as if deciding how to best explain things.  “The demon you dispatched was talking about Dean.  For a while, Dean was a demon, and he was in my employ.”  Now it was Catherine’s turn to raise her eyebrow; she was certain Dean would not have described it that way.  “But he made a terrible demon, and I released him to his brother.”

                “Why was he a terrible demon?” 

                “Because he didn’t follow directions,” Crowley replied.  “He refused to do his job.  I sent him out to kill someone and collect on a contract, and he killed the wrong person.  He decided the person I sent him to kill was innocent, and he killed the person who’d signed the contract instead.”

                “So…” Catherine paused, trying to figure it out.  “He wasn’t a good demon because he wouldn’t kill people for no reason?  He still protected the innocent, even as a demon who apparently worked for the king of Hell?”

                Crowley let out a frustrated huff.  “That, and he was wildly out of control.  He drank too much, brought women back to sleep with in my bed, and sang terrible karaoke every night.  He was only interested in partying, not wreaking havoc on the world.”

                Catherine nodded.  She didn’t much like the sleeping with women part, but the rest seemed to be in line with Dean’s character.  Crowley kept talking, though, and the next part of the story was jarring.

                “I returned him to his brother.  Moose managed to subdue him, but it wasn’t easy.  Apparently, Dean tried to kill him with a hammer, and it took him and their angel friend, Castiel, to get him under control.”  Crowley made eye contact with her then.  “If you need help with an angel,” he mused, “you should have contacted them instead of me.”

                She shook her head, shaking off the image of a black-eyed Dean swinging a hammer at Sam.  “I don’t… I don’t know them,” she told him.  “And you can’t just summon people.”

                He was looking at her curiously now, his eyes narrowing again as he thought.  “Hunters have a network,” he replied, “and if you’re good enough to hunt and torture my demons, you’d know that.  You’d know how to go about finding a hunter to help you with your angel problem.”

                She turned away from him.  “I hunt alone,” she said stubbornly.  “I’ve always hunted alone.”

                “Hmmm,” he hummed, slipping his hands into his pockets, moving casually now.  “Something about this whole trap isn’t right.”  He studied her, and she stared back, hoping he’d let it go.

                “I’m going to assume that you’re talking about the fact that you’re inside the trap,” she said, hoping that she could use sauciness to get things back on track.

                “No,” he said, staring right at her.  “You summon me, claiming to want information, but unwilling to give me anything specific.  You ask me about angels, but as soon as I mentioned the Winchesters, you drop that topic and start digging for information on them.  Is that what this is about?”  He assessed her calmly, the smile from the beginning of their meeting returning to his face. 

                Now it was Catherine’s turn to narrow her eyes, to look angrily at her captive.  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said.  “You brought them up.  I just asked you some questions.  And if you’re done with your rambling, we can get back to the topic of the angels.”

                “Oh no, darling,” Crowley replied lazily.  “You were much more interested in the Winchester brothers than in any weapon.  It’s written all over your face, even now, that you’d much prefer to talk about them.”

                “Until you mentioned them, I’d never heard of them.  Forgive my curiosity; I’ll try to keep my demon interrogations on track from here on out.”  She needed to get him away from this topic, urgently.  Dean had warned her that Crowley was clever, and Sam told her he’d find a way to one-up her if he could.  And here she was, scrambling to keep him under her thumb. 

                “Oh, come now, don’t be coy.  You’re here to get the details on the Winchesters.”  Crowley was practically purring with satisfaction.  “If that’s what you wanted to know, love, you should have just asked.”  
                “I’m not here to find out anything about Dean and Sam,” she snapped.  “And the longer this chat goes on, the less I’m enjoying it.”  She reached for the angel blade, hoping to intimidate Crowley just enough to get him back on track.

                “Dean and Sam?”  Crowley said their names, repeating her, and she stopped, her hand halfway to the blade.  “I didn’t tell you the name of Dean’s brother.”

                Catherine turned her head to make eye contact.  “What?”

                “I didn’t tell you Sam’s name.  I called him Moose.”

                Catherine shook her head, picked up the angel blade, and spun it lightly.  “Seriously, Crowley – what?”  _Play it off as confused,_ she told herself.  _Don’t let him see you sweat._

                “I see it now,” Crowley told her.  “You’re with them, aren’t you?  You’re even dressed like them, although the look works much better on someone with breasts, I’ll give you that.”  His smile had progressed to a smirk.  “And this is – what?  Some effort to distract me, keep my busy while those functioning morons do something incredibly stupid?”

                Catherine would have given anything to glance at her watch, but if she did, it was as good as an admission of guilt.  The only thing she could think of doing was to keep denying whatever Crowley suggested.  “Crowley, in all seriousness, I’m pretty sure you’ve lost it.  You must have said the name – otherwise I’d never have known it.  Like I said, before you mentioned the Winchesters, I’d only heard what your sad little minions had to say.  I guess it’s possible one of them said a name, but it’s hard to remember clearly, what with all the bleeding and screaming they were doing.”

                “Oh no, my dear.  You can’t dig yourself out of this one.”  Crowley was practically chortling, and Catherine was very quickly discovering that she kind of hated him. 

                “I’m not sure why you’re so gleeful,” she said, pointing at him with the tip of the blade.  “You’re inside a devil’s trap.”

                Crowley made a humming noise at her.  “Perhaps it’s time I dealt with that situation,” he replied.  He pulled his hand from his pocket, cell phone between his fingers.  “I’ll just make a quick call and have someone pop by to sort this out.”

                Catherine reacted with the speed and violence he would expect from a hunter.  She dropped the angel blade on the table, reaching with her other hand to whip her gun from her waistband.  “I’m sorry,” she told him, “but I’m afraid there’s no cell phone service in your area.”

                His eyebrows went up again, and she was beginning to think that was his default facial expression.  “Oh don’t worry,” he said.  “I’ll just make a quick call to Moose – or Squirrel, if you prefer – and sort this out.”

                She curved her finger on the trigger, ready to fire.  “Not a chance, Crowley.  You dial, you’re done.”

                “Are you new at this?  You can’t kill me with that,” he told her. 

                “No, but I can shoot the phone out of your hand before you have a chance to dial,” she warned him.  “And then I can shoot your demonic ass with another bullet, which, by the way, has a lovely little carving of a devil’s trap on it, so you won’t be able to move.  After that, I’ll have more than enough time to grab that sweet little blade and finish you off.” He paused, thumb over the buttons.  “Your choice, Crowley.  Drop the phone.”

                Crowley tutted at her, as if he was scolding her.  “What, did you make a mistake? Don’t want the boys to know you’ve screwed it up royally?”

                Catherine glared at him, curling her finger slightly, preparing to fire.  “Last chance, Crowley.  Drop the phone.”

                “I don’t think you’ll do it,” he told her, laughing.  “I suspect the boys have told you to keep me busy but alive,” he taunted her.  “Come on then – shoot me.”  He paused.  “Shoot me!”  This time, it was a shout.

                “That’s enough, Crowley.”  Dean’s voice cut through the room, and a second later, she heard his footsteps come through the door near her.  She glanced toward him, gun still trained on the demon.  Dean’s face was stony, and Catherine wondered how much of their exchange he had heard. 

                “Squirrel!” Crowley’s greeting was more enthusiastic than she expected.  “The new girl needs a little work,” he told Dean.  “She wasn’t doing too badly, but then she dropped the ball when you and your brother came up.”

                “Yeah?” Dean’s response sounded like a question, but Catherine was pretty sure it was a statement. “Well, she had your dumb ass stuck inside a devil’s trap for the last half hour.  While you were playing twenty questions, Sammy and I paid a little visit to your place. We picked up some take out too – an order of heavenly host with a side of human companion.  Oh, and we left some things behind, like a bunch of dead demons.”  Dean’s voice was low and dangerous, and Catherine knew he was angry.  She kept her gun up, trained on Crowley, ready to fire.  She wasn’t sure where Dean was going with this line of discussion.

                Crowley looked annoyed again.  “Yes, well, it wasn’t as if I kidnapped the angel,” he replied.  “He came to me for asylum.”

                “So you locked him in a cage?”  Dean’s rage was just beneath the surface.

                “For his own safety,” Crowley replied.  “You, of all people, know there are many in Hell who would enjoy torturing one of God’s favorite angels.  He wanted to be hidden, so I hid him.”

                “And how much information did you extract from the guy while you were hiding him?”  Dean glared at Crowley, who grinned and didn’t respond. 

                Dean crossed the room, carefully avoiding the area of the carpet where Crowley stood.  When he reached Catherine, he spoke quickly.  His words were clipped.  “Pick up your stuff.  Get outside.  Sam will be here soon with the car.” She could still hear anger in his voice, and she wondered how much of it was directed at her instead of Crowley.

                “How did you get here?” she asked.

                “Cas,” he replied.  “Now get your crap and wait outside. I’ll watch Crowley until we leave.”

                She nodded, lowering her weapon, realizing that arguing with him wouldn’t help.  “Okay,” she said, picking up her coat, the angel blade, and her other gear.  She moved toward the door.

                “Good bye, darling,” Crowley called after her.  “I’d say it’s been lovely, but that would be a lie.”

                Catherine stepped through the door, embarrassment turning her cheeks red.  Behind her, she heard Dean snap at Crowley, telling him to knock it off.  She closed the door behind her, leaving Dean to clean up her mess, and sat heavily on the front steps to wait for Sam. 

               

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started out as a little short story, where a hunter met the boys after being possessed by a spirit. Now it's inching toward a novel-length piece of writing with multiple conflicts! This is my first fanfic, and I'd appreciate your comments/feedback. Thanks for reading!


	15. Chapter 15

                The ride back to the bunker was painful.  When Sam pulled up in the Impala, Catherine slid into the back seat.  Sam didn’t ask about Dean, just got out of the car and walked inside the house.  A few minutes later, both of them came out.  Dean’s face was still angry, and Sam’s face was full of concern.  Dean sat behind the wheel, and as soon as the doors were closed, he peeled out of the driveway.  Catherine didn’t speak at all during the ride, and neither did Dean.  Sam turned, once, and looked at Catherine, offering a tiny smile, before asking Dean if he wanted to get food on the way back.  He just shook his head and kept his focus on the road. 

                As soon as the car stopped outside the bunker, Dean ripped the keys from the ignition and stormed inside, leaving Catherine and Sam behind.  They gathered the materials they had taken with them and carried them inside, laying them on the table of the main room.  Catherine steeled herself to go after Dean, to go to their room and check in with him, to let him yell at her for screwing up the thing with Crowley.  It was just as well to get it over with, and maybe, once Dean had released his anger, things could settle.

                Before she could walk from the room, Sam caught her arm.  “Don’t,” he warned her.  “Just give him some time.”

                She shook her head.  “He’s mad at me,” she replied, eyes downcast.  “I screwed up in there, and Crowley figured it out.  I’d rather have Dean do his yelling and screaming now, so it’s out of the way.  It’s not like I don’t deserve it.” 

                “Catherine,” Sam said, softly.  “He’s not really mad at you.  He’s been off all day.  Going into Hell was really hard for him.  He won’t say that, because Dean doesn’t talk about his feelings.  But he was mad as soon as we split up, and once we’d gotten Hadraniel out, he was worse.  When Cas popped in to grab the angel, Dean asked about you, and Cas said you’d handled it really well, but that Crowley was suspicious about your motives.  He told Dean you were fine and not to worry, but Dean insisted that Cas send him to you right away, so that he could back you up.”  Sam took a breath.  “We were only in Hell for about 15 minutes, but to Dean it probably felt like a lot longer.  He won’t talk about his time in Hell, but going there has got to be miserable for him.  So it’s not you he’s mad at.  Just give him a few minutes alone to cool off.”

                Catherine shook her head again, this time with tears in her eyes.  “No, Sam, you don’t understand.  When Dean got to me, Crowley had already sorted out exactly what was going on.  I was running out of things to ask him about, and he had muttered something about ‘bloody Winchesters.’  I needed something to keep him busy, to keep him distracted, so I asked what he was talking about.  He told me a little bit about you guys, but then I made a huge mistake.  I said your name, even though he hadn’t.  I tried to backpedal, to cover it up, but he knew exactly what we were doing.  I was the distraction, he said, and you two were doing something that he would want to know.”  She looked up at Sam, one tear rolling down her face.  “And then he pulled out his cell phone to call someone – I don’t know who, but he did threaten to call you or Dean – to put an end to it all, he said.  I was about to shoot the phone out of his hand when Dean came in.”

                Sam smiled, gently.  “Don’t worry about Crowley.  You had him handled.  If Dean hadn’t showed, you would have shot his phone and that would have been that.  You did great, Cath.  So what if he knows you’re with us?  Crowley’s not all bad.  He won’t come after you.  He was actually impressed by you.  When I got there, he was still sputtering about you to Dean.”

                She shook her head, still worried about how things ended.  “Did you leave him there?”

                Sam laughed, gently.  “No, I broke the trap and let him out.  He was in a hurry to get back to Hell and see what kind of mess we left him.”

                “He won’t come for revenge?”

                “Maybe,” Sam said.  “But things with Crowley are negotiable.  He gets out of line now and then, like hiding this angel, and we shove him back in his place.  He’s mad for a while, but then calls when he needs something.”

                “He called you Moose,” she told Sam.  “And Dean was Squirrel?”

                Sam sighed.  “Rocky and Bullwinkle.  I hate that.”  She smiled, just a little.  “You okay, Catherine?” He reached out, squeezing her arm.  “Hunting with us is like sticking your finger in the hole in the dam.  We’re always just a tiny bit ahead of catastrophe, waiting to be washed away in the flood.  This one was a win.  Trust me.”

                She nodded, wiping the tear from her face.   “I’m going to go check in with Dean,” she said, trying to smile. 

                “I’ll put away this crap,” Sam said.  “Just, you know, if he’s too angry to be around, you can go watch TV in my room or whatever.  I know what it’s like trying to deal with Dean when he’s like this.  Sometimes you just have to let him rage at himself until he works it out.”

                “Thanks Sam,” she said, turning to walk down the hall. 

 

                She paused outside their room, listening to see what Dean was doing.  She couldn’t hear much, besides drawers opening and closing.  She opened the door and stepped inside.  “Hey.”  She spoke softly, not wanting to startle him. 

                Dean looked at her, then returned to the drawer he was rifling though.  “Hey.”  He slammed the drawer, making her flinch.

                “Can I come in?” 

                He opened another drawer, pulling out a t-shirt, and then slammed it closed.  “Whatever,” he replied, stomping across the room.  Everything about him screamed aggression; his voice was rough, his body tense.  He toed off his shoes, and was unbuckling his belt, short jerky movements that accented his anger.  She realized he was heading for a shower, and thought maybe it would be better to leave him alone for a while longer.

                “Do you…” she trailed off, uncertain.  “Do you want me to leave?”

                Dean’s response was more than curt.  “Do whatever you want.  You didn’t follow my directions earlier, so why follow them now?”

                She turned, half away from him, as if to leave.  “Dean,” she said, so quietly it was almost a whisper.  “Please don’t be mad at me.”  Her chest ached.  “I didn’t mean for things to go like they did.  Crowley…” Dean wasn’t looking at her, and it made things so much worse.  If he’d just look at her, make eye contact, she’d be able to get through to him.  “Crowley was the one who mentioned you, and I just encouraged him to talk.”

                “We told you NOT to talk about us!  That was your job, and you didn’t do it.”  She could feel his anger.

                “I know,” she said miserably.  “But I was stuck, I needed to stall, and when he said your name out of nowhere I knew I could get him to talk about you, about you and Sam, and that it would keep him busy.  But then…”

                “Then what?” Dean was almost shouting now.  “What, Catherine?”

                She dropped her eyes.  “I made a mistake,” she told him.  “I tipped him off.  And he figured it all out, and I’m sorry, Dean.  I just screwed up.”

                Dean crossed the room to stand in front of her.  Now he really was yelling.  “Do you know how that could have ended in there?”  He grabbed her arms, almost shaking her.  “Crowley has killed people for a lot less than summoning him and trapping him.  He could have killed you!”

                She shook her head, denying it.  “He was in the trap.  I would have shot his phone to destroy it before he could have called anyone.”

                “You should have stuck to the plan!”  He was shaking her now.  “When we make a plan you have to follow it!”  Dean’s fingers were biting into her arms, and his thumb pressed into her shoulder, where he’d shot her.  She made a sound, just a small one, and Dean’s face whitened.  He released her instantly, arms dropping to his side, stepping back.  “This isn’t… I…”  He seemed stuck, unable to finish a sentence.  He turned away from her, walking across the room.  There was a pause, pregnant with the anger and guilt that lay heavy between them. 

                She waited a minute, let him gather himself, and crossed to stand behind him.  She realized that when he was stressed or scared, his default reaction was anger.  “Dean,” she said, and he didn’t turn.  She reached around him, hugging into his back.  He tensed, and she could almost feel his desire to fight her, to push her off.  “Please.  You can be mad at me, if you need to be.  I know I made mistakes, and I’m mad at me too.  But I did get the job done,” she could feel him tightening, ready to start yelling again, so she kept going.  “I didn’t get hurt.  I could have held Crowley there a lot longer, although he would have known who I was.  And you showed up to help me, so it’s all okay.” 

                Dean’s voice was rough, choked.  “If I hadn’t… if you were hurt…”

                “I know,” she said, soft again.  “I worried about you too.  But I’m not some innocent girl you met on the street.  I was in this life before you met me, and if you want me to leave, I’ll keep hunting alone.”

He moved at that, and she squeezed him a little tighter.  “If you’re mad because I didn’t do things right, that’s okay.  I deserve that.  Yell at me.  And if you’re mad because of what you saw in Hell, what you had to do there, that’s something we can deal with.  I know you don’t want to talk about Hell, and I won’t ask you to, ever.”  The tension in his body was so high that Dean was practically vibrating.  “But please, please,” her voice broke, “don’t shut me out and ignore me.”  The tears in her eyes spilled over, and she was sure she’d leave wet marks on her shirt.  “Please, Dean.”

                He exhaled, a long, slow breath that seemed to release some of the tension in his body.  His hands moved up to cover hers, clasped at his waist.  They stood like that, together, for what felt like ages. 

                “I know you feel guilty,” she said, speaking into his back, unable to break contact with him even long enough to walk around him and face him. “But you don’t have to, not about me, not ever.  I make my choices, and I own them.  I choose to hunt.  If I get hurt, or killed, or whatever, it’s never on you, Dean.  Never.”  She felt him draw in a breath, as if to protest, so she kept speaking.  “I told you before, you carry guilt for things that aren’t your fault.  I can’t be one of those things.  You have to let some of it go, Dean.”

                “I can’t,” he said, brokenly.  “If you knew… if Crowley had told you what I’d done…”

                She tightened her hold on him again.  “I know who you are, Dean Winchester. There’s nothing Crowley could have told me that would change that.  I haven’t been with you for long, but I know you’re good.”  She paused.  “One of these days, you’ll know it too, and the guilt will be gone.”        

                Dean pulled away from her then, his body tensing, and he stood in the bathroom doorway.  “You wouldn’t say that, not if you knew what happened.”  The choked sound of his voice was killing her, killing them both.

                “I know enough,” she said. 

                “No, you don’t know!”  He exploded then, whirling to face her.  “No one can know!  The time I spent in Hell, the torture, the pain – it was the worst kind of pain that never stopped.  I couldn’t die in Hell.  They just healed me and started over, cutting me to ribbons bit by bit, and when I finally couldn’t take anymore, couldn’t bear another cut, they made me do it to other souls. I held the knife, I cut them to shreds, and I liked it.”

                She reached for him, but he flinched back, so she stopped.  Tears were running down her face.  Dean didn’t seem to be able to stop now that he’d started. 

                “And then to end up there again, with the Mark?  I was a demon!  I killed people, and I liked it.  I beat the crap out of some guy, just for fun.  He couldn’t stand up against me – no one could.  I nearly killed him too.  And Sammy,” Dean’s voice was so full of self-loathing that Catherine ached for him, “God, I tried to kill him.  Here.  In the bunker.  With a hammer.  He was lucky that he got ahead of me in a fight, and then Cas showed up, otherwise I would have beaten his brains in with a friggin’ hammer!” Dean choked back a sob.  “My own brother, Catherine.  That’s what Hell did to me.  I would have killed Sam, and enjoyed it.”

                “But Dean,” Catherine said, softly, carefully, not wanting to push him any further.  “That wasn’t you.  That was the Mark.”

                “Don’t you understand?”  He was pleading with her now, needing someone to see what was breaking him apart.  “Hell is awful, and cruel, and full of pain – and both times, I became someone who gave that pain to others.  And I liked it.  That’s who I am.  All I do is hurt people.”  One tear rolled down his cheek, and his jaw was set. 

                “Oh, Dean,” she sighed, sadly.  “That’s not who you are, not at all.  Do you know why Crowley told me you weren’t a good demon?”  She paused to let him hear her, accept her words.  “Because you wouldn’t kill innocent people.  You wouldn’t take their lives, even if they had made a contract with a demon.”  He shook his head, and she crossed the room to take his face in her hands.  “You’re not evil, Dean,” she said, tugging his face to get him to look at her.  “You’ve ended up in terrible situations where you’ve had to do terrible things.  But those are just things you’ve done.  They are not who you are.” He shook his head between her hands, but she refused to let go.  “I’m telling you the truth, Dean.  You are a good person.  You take care of Sam, and of Castiel, and you take care of me.  You run headlong into danger to help total strangers, from what I’ve heard.  You are good.” 

                Dean couldn’t look at her.  Catherine could almost feel guilt and shame and worry rolling off him in waves as he struggled to hold up under the weight of his feelings.  This is what going into Hell did to him, she realized; it forced him to face all the hate he had for himself, for what he’d done.  She stood on her toes, tugging his face down to hers, waiting for him to make eye contact.  “Dean,” she spoke quietly, directly in front of him.  “Dean, please look at me.”  His eyes flickered to hers, and she waited for them to stay there.  “You,” she said, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead, “are good.”  She kissed his cheek then, before speaking again.  “You are good.”  Other cheek.  “You are good.” 

                His arms came up around her then, pulling her close, and he buried his face in her neck, holding tightly to her.  He didn’t say anything; they just held each other.  Catherine breathed in Dean’s smell, of leather and gunpowder and soap, and she thought to herself that there couldn’t be anyone in the world who felt as deeply as Dean, who pushed through days like today, carrying the burden of his past and the world’s fate on his shoulders.  Then she realized that Sam, too, must hurt like this.  For her, hunting had been a personal vendetta, something to ease the ache of a family ripped away, something that could give her a measure of release for her own loss.  But Dean and Sam, they had faced far greater cruelties.  She didn’t know the full story, just the barest outline of a few parts, but she knew they were extraordinary men, hunters who had travelled into the darkest parts of the world, and of themselves, to do the right thing.  She squeezed Dean a little tighter then, and wished Sam was there so that she could hug him and tell him what she thought.

                Dean sighed into her skin, and his hold loosened, so that he could lean back and see her face.  “Catherine,” he said, and she could hear the difference in his voice.  “I don’t,” he started, but then tried again, a different phrase.  “Thanks.”

                She pressed a kiss onto his lips before speaking.  “Anytime, babe,” she said, smiling at him despite the tears on her face.  He hugged her tightly again, and she tucked her head beneath his chin, listening to the steady beat of his heart, feeling his breathing even out.  “Do you remember what you said to me after we fought the first time?  That I needed to let you help me?”

                “Yeah.”  
                “Sometimes you have to let me help you, Dean.  When it’s all too much, when you have this heavy feeling like today, let me help you.  You can yell at me for screwing up, or just let me hold you like this, but I’ll always tell you what you need to hear – that I know who you are, and who you are is a good person.  I said I was used to using just the weapons I possess, remember?” She felt him nod.  “You have me now.  Let me be the weapon that’s in your possession, the one you use to fight those feelings.”

                Dean made a humming noise, and she knew he was reaching the limit for talking about feelings.  She turned her face toward him, running her nose along his neck, up under his chin.  She placed a small kiss there before leaning back so that he could kiss her properly.  He changed the topic.  “I didn’t ask you, when I got to you, if you were okay.  I was too angry to focus.  Are you okay?”

                She smiled.  “I’m fine.  Crowley was in the trap before he had a chance to get near me.  What about you?  Are you okay?”

                He shrugged.  “A few scratches and bruises, but nothing serious.”

                “Why don’t you shower?  I’ll go make something to eat, and we’ll relax for the night,” she suggested.  Dean agreed, releasing his hold on her, and with another kiss, he went to get clean. 

                When he left the room, Catherine sat on the bed, eyes closed, thinking about the day they’d had.  She was tired, and her eyes hurt from crying just now, but before she could do anything else she had one more thing to do.  She changed out of her hunting clothes and left the room, looking for Sam.

                She found him in the main room, making notes about the hunt on his laptop.  “Hey,” he said when he saw her.  “I heard shouting, but it ended pretty quickly.  Dean calmed down?” 

                “Yeah,” she said, “but it took a while.  I learned a lot about him today.”  Sam’s face was questioning.  She walked over to him, standing behind him, and leaned down to wrap him in her arms.  “And I learned a lot about you too, Sam.”  She placed a gentle kiss on top of his head, then hugged him hard.  “You’re a good person, Sam.  You and Dean both.  I want you to remember that.  And if you forget, I’ll remind you, okay?”  She put her chin on his shoulder, so her cheek was next to his.  “I’m so grateful that Dean didn’t shoot me when I was beating you up in that bar,” she told him, and he laughed.  “If he had, I wouldn’t have gotten to know you guys, and I wouldn’t have been here to tell you that I know how truly good you are.”

                Sam raised a hand to squeeze her arm.  “Where did this come from?” he asked, puzzled.

                “Nowhere,” she replied.  “I just wanted to say it to you.”

                Sam blushed.  “Thanks,” he said.  “It’s not… It’s hard to feel good, sometimes, you know?  Doing this?”

                “I know,” Catherine replied.  She kissed his cheek.  “I’m going to go make dinner.  Lazy night tonight, okay?”

                Sam nodded.  “Sounds good,” he answered. 

                She walked to the kitchen, humming to herself, feeling like, for the first time in a really long time, things were going to be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feelings, feelings, feelings... so many damn feelings!


	16. Epilogue

**_Epilogue –  Six Months Later_ **

 

                “Get the door, would you, Dean?”  Sam’s voice sang out behind Catherine. 

                “Yeah, hang on,” Dean replied, shifting things around in his arms, laughing at the face Catherine was making at him.  “Let me get a hand free.”

                They were carrying their gear, plus several pizza boxes and some beer.  They were just back from a hunt where they’d killed a rugaru, and they were in a celebratory mood.  Dean was smiling, Sam was laughing, and Catherine was soaking it all up.  These were some of the best nights in the bunker.  Everyone was relaxed and the world felt safe, at least for the time being.  Together, they ate and drank, listening to classic rock and relaxing. 

                Things had fallen into place between them.  Dean had, eventually, learned to trust Catherine’s abilities.  He hadn’t managed to stop worrying about her all the time, but Sam assured Catherine that she would get used to that.  “I made him promise he wouldn’t make any more deals with demons to save me,” Sam said.  “He agreed, but God knows what else he’d do if it came down to it.  That’s just who he is.”

                When Sam had told her that, Catherine shook her head.  “I can’t get used to it,” she replied.  “I don’t want him to get hurt for me.”

                Sam shrugged.  “When I was really little, our Dad was always telling Dean that it was his job to look after me.  He feels responsible for me.  He always has.  It’s who our father raised him to be.” Sam looked at Catherine, smiling sadly.  “And now you’re part of that too.  He’ll always worry, and he’ll probably do something stupid to save you, if it comes to that.”

                Catherine had sighed, knowing she couldn’t change Dean any more than he could change her.  “It’s a strange feeling,” she admitted, “to have someone care that much.”

                “Yeah,” Sam said, voice serious.  “It is.”  He paused.  “But you feel the same way, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question.  “If Dean were in danger, if it was his life or yours, you’d die for him.” She opened her mouth to argue, to say it wouldn’t come to that, but closed it again without a word.  Sam spoke softly.  “You love him.  I see it in your face when you’re together.  He’s my family, and I’d die for him in a heartbeat if it kept him alive and breathing.  And you would too.”

                She swallowed hard, hearing the truth in Sam’s words.  She couldn’t fault Dean for protecting her.  She wanted to do the same for him.  When she thought about it, she knew she’d do anything to keep him safe.

                “Hey,” Dean tapped her arm, bringing her attention back to the present.  “Do we have any pie left?”

                She smiled.  “There’s half a pie in the fridge.  Want me to warm it up?”  Dean nodded, and Catherine leaned forward to place a kiss on his lips.  “Your wish is my command.” 

                She went to the kitchen, leaving Sam and Dean to talk and laugh together.  She knew she was lucky to have found them, and even luckier still that they’d welcomed her to their family.  She couldn’t imagine hunting alone anymore, not after all this time with the Winchesters.  She pulled the pie from the fridge, removed the foil cover, and turned the oven on to warm it up.  She tidied the kitchen as she waited for the oven to preheat, and once it was ready, she slid the pie into the oven.  It would only need a few minutes to warm up, then she’d bring it in.

                Behind her, she heard a rustling noise.  She turned to find Castiel standing behind her.  “Oh!  Hey Cas,” she said, startled.  “What’s up?”  Catherine had spent some time with the angel in the past few months, and she’d mostly gotten used to him appearing randomly. 

                “Hello Catherine,” he intoned, his voice serious.  “Are you well?”

                She smiled.  “I’m great,” she answered.  “The hunt went well and we’re celebrating with pizza and pie.  Come hang out,” she offered. 

                Cas glanced toward the doorway, but didn’t move.  “I was hoping to talk to you,” he told her, his blue eyes serious. 

                “Sure, Cas,” she said.  “You want me to get the guys?”

                “No.”  His voice was firm.  “Just you.”

                Catherine was more than a little confused.  Cas came by all the time, but he had never really spent any time with her alone.  He gravitated toward Dean whenever he was in their company.  “Ummm,” she paused, uncertain.  “Okay.  What did you want to talk about?”

                Castiel looked uncomfortable as he started to speak, his gravelly voice serious.  “You have been with Dean and Sam for some time now.  Are you planning to stay with them forever?”

                Catherine nodded.  “For as long as they’ll have me,” she told him.  “I was alone before, Cas.”  He looked at her questioningly.  “My family was killed by demons.  That’s why I became a hunter.  When I met the guys, it changed everything for me.”

                “And you’re still…” he seemed to be searching for the right word.  “With Dean?”

                “I am,” she said. 

                “Do you love him?”  Cas was direct.

                Catherine blushed furiously, dropping her gaze to the floor.  “We haven’t put a label on it like that yet, Cas.  We’ve only been together a little more than six months.” 

                The angel looked at her, and his gaze hardened.  He raised one hand, two fingers forward.  “May I?”

                She raised a hand to stop him.  “May you what?” she asked.  “Please don’t zap me somewhere. Dean complains about it way too much for me to want to do that outside of emergency situations.”

                He shook his head.  “May I look into your thoughts?”

                “What for?”

                Cas thought for a moment.  “I feel very protective about Sam and Dean,” he told her.  “I have journeyed into Hell to bring them back from the depths of perdition, and I would protect them from any harm I could.”  Blue fire blazed in his eyes.  “I do not know you well, but I would like to trust you if you are going to stay.”

                Catherine understood then.  She nodded her assent, then closed her eyes.  Castiel touched her forehead, briefly, and she felt his grace tingling through her body.  She exhaled, suddenly relaxed and peaceful in a way she’d never experienced.  When she opened her eyes again, Castiel was staring at her.

                “You love him,” he said.   She blushed again.  “You should tell him, Catherine.”

                “He’s not ready,” she whispered.  “You know how he is, Cas.  He’s not good with sharing feelings and all that stuff.”

                The smell of the pie wafted from the oven, and Catherine bent to pull the door open.  She lifted the pie plate to the stovetop, then turned to face Cas. 

                “Tell him, Catherine,” Cas said.  “He deserves happiness.”

                Catherine took a deep breath.  “I know he does, Cas.  I’ll tell him soon, I promise.”  She picked up the pie, ready to go.  “So you trust me now?” she asked.  He nodded.  “Okay.  Good.  Now come sit down with us while we eat pie.”  He followed her to main room, where Dean and Sam were waiting.

                “Hey, Cas!”  Sam greeted him with a wave.

                “What are you doing here, Cas?” Dean asked.

                Cas glanced at Catherine.  “I came to celebrate with you,” he said.  “Catherine said your hunt went well.”

                She set the pie on the table, quickly cutting and distributing pieces.  “Rugaru’s dead, no one was hurt, and we’re home in time for pie.  I’d call that a good day’s work.”

                “Definitely,” Sam said.  Dean was too busy eating pie to comment.  “Come sit down, Cas.  Tell us what’s new in Heaven.” 

                He joined them, and the four of them talked and drank and ate, until it was time for bed.  Sam yawned and headed to his room, stretching his long body as he walked down the hall.  Cas said goodnight and popped out of sight, but not before he gave Catherine a heavy look, which she answered with a small smile.  And then they were alone, just the two of them.

                Catherine looked up at Dean.  “Bed?” she asked.

                He stood, scooping her into his arms, making her laugh as he carried her to their room.  He dumped her on the bed, unceremoniously, laughing at her surprised face before peeling off his clothes for the night.  She stripped as well, pulling off her jeans and shirt, then waiting for Dean to look at her before she unclipped her bra, slowly revealing her breasts.  He exhaled, joining her on the bed, wearing just his boxer-briefs, and in a flash his hands were running across her skin.  His lips followed his hands, kissing, touching, licking.  He paused for a moment at the scar on her shoulder, the one from where he’d shot her.  “You can barely even see it anymore,” he whispered, breath hot against her skin.

                She groaned beneath his touch.  “The marks you’ve left on me are far more permanent than a gunshot wound scar, Dean,” she told him. “You’ve changed my soul.”

                He pulled up abruptly to claim her mouth, kissing her hurriedly, letting his tongue and teeth and lips respond for him.  Between kisses, he panted, “You can still shoot me, you know,” his teeth caught her lower lip for just a second, teasing, “to even things up.”

                She pushed him back, running her hand down his chest, reaching for his waistband.  “I’ll keep that in mind for the next time you’re yelling at me for no good reason.”

                He laughed, a short, sharp chuckle.  “Sweetheart, I always have a reason for everything I do.”

                Her fingers slipped inside his shorts, brushing against him, feeling him swell.  “Sure, but it’s not always a good reason,” she reminded him, leaning in to kiss his neck, to lick his collarbone.  “I’ll pick the right moment.”  Gripping him, she made him gasp, putting an end to his teasing.  She stroked him, getting him fully hard.  With her other hand, she pulled at his shorts, tugging them down his hips, and he lifted up to let her pull them off.  She pushed his at his chest, and he lay back on the bed so that she could straddle him.  She ground against him, rubbing herself all over his hardness, letting her wetness – and his – dampen her panties.  They had long ago gotten tested to be sure they were both clean, and once they’d received the all clear, they’d dispensed with condoms and moved on to easier birth control. 

                Dean reached up, holding her hips, urging her to grind harder against him. 

                “Cath,” he said her name, and it was like a prayer, begging and pleading.  “What do you want?”  It was a question she’d asked him once, months ago, and she knew the answer.

                “I want you, Dean,” she told him, leaning down to kiss him.  “I’ll always want you.”

                Dean reached between them as they kissed, pushing her underwear to the side before guiding her onto his shaft.  “I don’t want to wait,” he said into her mouth. 

                She sat back up then, letting her head fall back, pushing her breasts forward as her back arched.  She rolled her hips, sliding herself along Dean’s length, slick with their excitement.  One hand on his chest, she rode him, angling her body so that he was buried in her fully.  He pushed up, matching her rhythm, finding the spot she needed him to find.  His hands cupped her ass, rubbed her thighs, tweaked her nipples, touched her centre.  Catherine’s orgasm was building fast, like it always did when she controlled the pace.  “Dean.”  Her breath was coming in gasps and pants.  “I’m so close, so close.” 

                He smirked at her.  “I know,” he said.  “Come for me, sweetheart.”  He swirled his fingers around her clit, and she came, shuddering.  He kept thrusting into her, lazily, slowly, letting her ride through her first orgasm.  When she collapsed against his chest, he stilled, rubbing small circles into her back.  “Good?” He asked, laughing quietly when she mumbled her agreement.   Catherine rolled to one side, catching her breath, reaching with her hand to find Dean’s, squeezing it.

                “Just give me a second here,” she said, still breathless.  Dean laughed again, then rolled toward her, scooting down her body to pull off her panties. 

                “You’re so wet for me,” he said, kissing her thigh, making her jump.  He placed more kisses, soft and gentle, along her hipbone, her belly, working back down to her thigh, nestling between her legs.  He lifted one leg, pushing his body beneath it, and began to lick her folds, softly at first, letting her overly sensitive body adjust to the sensation.  As she relaxed into it, he moved faster, more purposefully, using his tongue to caress her.  Her hands rubbed through his hair, tugging, scratching.  She arched her back, pushing herself against his face, and she could feel him laughing against her.  The vibrations made her sigh in pleasure.

                She tugged his hair again, pulling his attention up to her face.  “My turn,” she said.  “Let me return the favour.”  Dean smiled, obliging, and he rolled onto his back for her.  She reached for him, stroking him a few times, marvelling at his hardness.  He was slick, and when she licked along his shaft, she could taste herself.  She took him in her mouth, swirling her tongue to hit all of the places that she knew drove Dean wild, sucking gently when she was near the top, and swallowing hard when she had taken it as deeply as possible. 

                “Catherine,” Dean’s voice was husky, rough.  He tangled his hands in her hair, rubbing her scalp with his fingertips.  She moaned, loving the feel of his hands, the taste of his skin.  Dean mimicked her movement from a few moments before, tugging on her hair to get her to look up.  “Come here,” he said. 

                She climbed back up the bed, lying beside him.  He claimed her mouth with his own, kissing her frantically as he rolled her to her back.  He hovered over her for just a moment, nudging her legs apart with his knee.  He knew she liked it best this way, with him on top of her, their bare skin making as much contact as possible, his weight pressing her into the bed.  He slid inside of her, thrusting immediately, and her legs came up to hook over his hips.  They moved together, rocking and sliding, building quickly.  Dean’s face fell into her neck, and her hands held onto his back, clinging to him desperately, as they communicated only in sounds and squeezes.

                Dean began to pound into her, as hard as he could, and Catherine fell over the edge, crying out as she came.  Her muscles tightened and pulled, and Dean came with her.  They lay together, a tangle of sweaty skin and firing nerves, hands stroking each other gently. 

                “Dean,” Catherine managed to whisper as he rolled to the side, tucking his arm around her waist.  They still slept like that, the same way they had the first night she’d shared a bed with Dean, when she’d been hurt and he had saved her by shooting her. 

                “Yeah?”  His voice was sleepy, ready to drift off for the night.

                “I’m really glad you shot me.”  He snorted, laughing even in his half-asleep state.   They were silent for a moment, then Dean spoke. 

                “What did Cas want earlier?” he asked. 

                “What do you mean?” Catherine was surprised by the question.

                “I know Cas,” Dean said.  “He always shows up when he needs something or wants something.  He talked to you first, before you came back with the pie.  He looked serious, and you were all red-faced and flustered.”

                Catherine sighed.  “He wanted to read my mind.”

                That caught Dean’s attention.  He propped himself up on his elbow so that he could see her face.  He cocked one eyebrow.  “What?”

                “Yeah.  He wanted to make sure I’m trustworthy,” she said. 

                Dean was offended.  “What the hell, Cas?” He started to get out of bed.  “Get your feathery ass down here.  That’s not cool, man.”

                “Dean,” Catherine said, grabbing his arm.  “It’s okay.  I get it.”  Dean stopped, looking at her.  “He wanted to make sure I wouldn’t hurt you,” she explained.  “He was being your friend, you know?”

                “What else did he say?”  Dean demanded, irritated. 

                “Uhhh…” Catherine blushed again, remembering the rest of the conversation.  “He asked if I was staying with you guys.”

                “And?” Dean asked.  “There’s something else you’re not telling me.”

                She sighed.  “He asked if I love you,” she said.  She fiddled with the sheets, tugging at them rather than looking at Dean. 

                He was silent for a moment, then spoke.  “What did you say?” His voice was rough.

                “I…” she struggled to say it.  “I didn’t answer.  I didn’t want to say it to anyone else before I said it to you.”  She paused and looked up to find Dean’s eyes.  For a few seconds, the clarity of his green eyes hypnotized her; she forgot that was in the middle of saying the most important words in her life.  He blinked, waiting for her, and she caught her breath.  “I love you,” she told him.  “I’m completely in love with you, Dean.”

                He stared at her, frozen, while she waited for his answer.  Catherine knew this was hard for him; Dean was afraid to love, afraid that someday, he’d lose everyone he cared about.  She knew it was easier to push people away, to be lonely, than to try to be with someone and risk all that pain over and over.  She knew because she felt that way too, and she had ever since her family had died.  Slowly, though, since she’d been part of the Winchesters’ family, she’d let that fear go; she’d chosen Dean, no matter how much it might hurt later on.  And now, in this moment, all she could do was hope that he chose her too, that he could love her instead of letting fear make his choices for him.  She waited, his lovely face just inches from hers, hoping she hadn’t just ruined the best thing in her life.

                Dean exhaled, his face changing.  He leaned toward her, lips curving upward in a smile, eyes alive with feeling.  “I love you too, Cath,” he told her.  He kissed her, slow and sweet, before pulling back and saying it again.  “I love you.”

                They wrapped their arms around each other, pulling their bodies close together.   _This is home,_ Catherine thought.  _Dean is home for me._   He kissed her once more before settling down beside her, tugging her body back to his, ready to sleep.  She leaned into him, feeling his warm skin against hers, smiling as she closed her eyes.  “Night, Dean,” she whispered.

                “Night, sweetheart,” he said, his breath hot against her ear. 

                And they slept.  When Catherine woke, hours later, to find herself still tucked up against Dean, she smiled and whispered softly “I love you, Dean Winchester.”  He didn’t wake, but a smile ghosted across his features.  She closed her eyes again and drifted back to sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here it is - the first fan fiction I've ever written, which started as a short story and became a novella-length piece. My apologies if you hated it (but thanks for reading along!), and my deepest thanks if you liked it. Please don't be shy - click the cute little heart or drop me a note. I'd love your feedback.


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